


You Are My Ruin

by Mystletainn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Incest, M/M, Older Man/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 31,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1564415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystletainn/pseuds/Mystletainn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark, a girl who lived a perfect life, suffers through seven hells as she watches everything that she once had slip through her fingers. There is only one thing left: revenge.</p><p>In the aftermath of her destruction, a mysterious man appears and claims to be an ally. Is Petyr Baelish truly what he says he is?</p><p> </p><p>"I have always found that [revenge] to be the purest of motivations."<br/>-Petyr Baelish</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ambush

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fan fiction I have ever written. Please bear with my language and style. I'm not that good at writing.  
> Feedback is welcome and will be very much appreciated. :)
> 
> To be honest, I don't have a definite plot in mind. I'm just gonna be winging it.  
> I hope it won't be too horrible. :D

Ned Stark looked around himself. Cassel, and the rest of his agents lay dead on the floor, drenched in blood. He was surrounded by no less than ten armed men. A man walks into the room in manner that makes him seem taller than he really is. He had wavy hair so dark a shade of brown that it seemed black. His eyes, a color between green and grey, hardly ever matched the expression on his lips. He was wearing a black Armani suit with a grey necktie.

"I did tell you not to trust me," he said as he drew out a gun and pointed it at the back of Ned's head. Ned did not need to turn around to know who it was. He knew that voice anywhere. He dropped his weapon and put his hands up.

"Baelish. So it's come to this."

"Please. Call me Petyr." And with a snap of his fingers, the first two shots were fired. The first one hit Ned at the back of his knee. The second one found its way into his thorax. He fell on his knees. His wound was bleeding rapidly. He made an attempt to prevent further blood loss by pressing his hands over the wound. It was futile.

"No! Please.....don't!" screamed a young girl's voice. Petyr spun and looked for the source of the sound. Not that he had to; the little girl was running to Ned's side. She was a child, probably seven or eight, but one would have to be blind to not see her beauty. The auburn locks draping down her face made her ivory skin look even more radiant. Her bright blue eyes shone like sapphires, reflecting the light ever so brilliantly.

_I know this look. Hair kissed by flame, that unmistakable shade of blue.....Cat!_ Petyr gasped at this realization. He found himself staring at the girl embracing the man before him. He was unable to believe what was before his eyes. "Hold it," he managed to say. The armed men complied.

He slowly approached the two. The girl stepped back and moved closer to Ned. As Petyr's hand neared her, she raised her arms over her head in mock defense and tried to shield Ned with her body. Ned grabbed her shoulders and drew her closer to himself. "Baelish, don't you dare touch her!" Ned said with a commanding voice.

"D-don't come any closer," she said, trying to sound threatening but failing horribly.

Petyr found himself chuckling. How adorable, he thought. "Never fear, little girl. I won't hurt you. He turned his attention to Ned. "You, however, that's a different story." He glanced at the girl again. "Tell me, sweetling, what's your name?" 

The girl looked at Ned as if seeking approval. He simply sighed and nodded, still holding her tightly.

"It's Sansa," she responded. "Sansa Stark." 

"Sansa," he muttered absentmindedly, testing the name on his mouth. "That's a lovely name."

Sansa was staring at him, pleadingly and....angrily? She clenched her fists so hard that her knuckles started turning white. Her jaw was tense. 

"My, my, aren't you scary?" Petyr was obviously amused. "The Starks: quick temper, slow minds. Ned, would you like her to face the same fate as you? I have no intention of dragging an innocent into this."

Ned shot him an angry glance before looking at Sansa lovingly. "Sansa, look at me." She did as she was told. "Listen. Something bad is going to happen. I want you to remain strong, okay? No matter what happens. Do you understand?" 

The girl nodded. "Dad, you're bleeding. We have to get you to a hospital. Come on. Let's go." She tried to lift him up by his arms. When that failed, she started pushing him. Ned's heavy body wouldn't budge.

"Sansa, I won't make it."

"What do you mean?" She was on the verge of tears. 

"I've lost too much blood already. I will be dead soon."

Sansa shook her head vigorously. "No. No. I'll bring you there. I'll carry you if I have to. I'll..I'll-" She was crying now. Ned started wiping her tears with the back of his hand. "Take care of your mother, your brothers, and your sister. Remember, be strong."

"Yes, dad, I will. Now let's go-"

"I love you, Sansa." He kissed her on the forehead, embraced her one last time, and released her. Petyr took her by the arm. She tried to wriggle out of his grip, punching and kicking him. She wasn't strong enough. "Daddy! Daddy! Let me go!" She sunk her teeth into Petyr's hand. It was painful, but he simply grabbed her shoulders.

"Don't look," Petyr whispered as he moved his hand to cover her eyes. One gunshot to his occiput, and Ned was gone. Petyr could feel her tears wetting his hand. The child was shaking violently, her sobs almost deafening. With a dismissive wave of his hand, his henchmen left the room. He felt her resistance growing weaker and her body going limp; she lost consciousness.


	2. Rosso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red, red, red.

"That was a lovely dinner, Mrs. Stark. Or should I call you mother now?" Joffrey smiled charmingly, his emerald eyes glistening. He ran a hand through his blonde hair in a coy manner. Sansa knew better. He was anything but shy. 

Her mother Catelyn simply returned a smile of her own. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," she responded, completely ignoring his question. She did not dislike him. Part of her finds him an unsuitable husband for her daughter. But then again, who would want to wage a war against the Baratheons or the Lannisters? Ned had agreed to Robert Baratheon's proposal to marry his son Joffrey to Sansa. The two men were very close friends, treating each other like brothers, and this marriage was an attempt to bridge the two families. It is a well-known fact that the Starks, just like the Baratheons and Lannisters, were a wealthy family. Apart from being a British Intelligence agent, which was a secret, her husband was a businessman.

Catelyn knew better than endangering her family just because of her personal opinions. _Sansa loves, no, even worships him. I suppose he can make her happy._ She always comforts herself with that thought.

"Mom, Joffrey is throwing a party at his place tonight. May I go?" Sansa asked, breaking the silence.

"What time will you be home?" Catelyn managed to keep the worry out of her voice. She did not entirely trust Joffrey.

"I will personally return her tomorrow morning, perfectly safe." Joffrey was giving another one of those arrogant smiles. "Around 6 a.m., maybe?"

Catelyn looked at Sansa. "Will you be fine? I can trust you, can't I?"

"Of course. Don't you trust me anymore, mom?" Sansa said almost sulkily, and then grinned.

_I have great confidence in you, my dear. It's him that I don't trust._ "Very well, then. I trust you will take care of my daughter." She cocked a brow at Joffrey.

"I will, Mrs. Stark."

\--------------------------------

"Joff, wait. Please." Her palms were flat on his chest, trying to create more distance between them, but she hasn't applied any force to push him away yet. Just a few minutes ago, they were dancing slowly to a male rendition of Christina Perri's A Thousand Years. His hands were on her waist, and hers around his neck. As they were swaying slowly, her horrible memories of him slapping her or saying horrible things to her started slipping away. She believed that she can change him with the right amount of love and care, that she could get him to reciprocate her feelings. When the music began to die, he cupped her chin and kissed her softly. "I love you, Sansa."

Tears began to roll down her eyes. This was the first time that his kiss felt that way. He was usually hasty and rough, often leaving cuts on her lips from all the biting. She thought he finally started to love her. She thought....

He guided her into the guest bedroom. Suddenly, he grabbed her wrists and pinned her to the wall. His kisses went back to the way they were, leaving them both breathing raggedly. Joffrey let go of her and started unbuttoning his shirt. His lips were on hers again, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth. Noticing that she wouldn't allow him to enter, he bit her lip. "Come on. We're gonna do this anyway. Don't you love me, Sansa?"

She could not help but shudder. She should have known that his love was superficial. He only wanted her body. Her palms were still on his chest. "I..I do love you. It's just--"

"So prove it," he cut in. "If you love me, you will do this."

Sansa froze. She did not know what to do. He was kissing her neck this time. Normally, she likes it when he does this. Now, with all the drinks he's had, and that look of desire on his face, she was terrified. He was unbuckling his belt now. She started running towards the door. Despite his drunkenness, he was able to move fast enough to block her exit.

"Wait, Sansa." He was almost shouting. His words were slurred. "I still have to stick this in you," he said laughingly. He pointed at the erect penis peeking out of his trousers.

"No. Please don't do this. Please, Joff," she pleaded. She stepped backward until her calves hit the side of the bed. He pushed her down and began removing her dress. She covered herself with her hands, trying to pull the garment closer to her body. He ended up ripping the dress. Her undergarments were exposed. He grinned lasciviously at the sight of her tight body. He unceremoniously unlaced her brassiere and threw it in a random direction. He slid his tongue along her sternum and cupped both breasts with his hands. He was moving south now. This made Sansa squirm. She was unwilling to do it now. She probably never will be if it were to be with him. Almost unconsciously, she kicked him in the groin. She was perplexed by her own actions as much as he was.

Joffrey writhe in pain as he clasped his manhood. "You bitch!"

She rose from the bed and ran out of the room. She was glad that some guests were still present. Maybe she could ask some help from them. To her disappointment, they were as drunk as Joffrey was. Some of them were sprawled across the stairs, the couch, the counter top, and the floor. One had his head in a trash bin, probably passed out, too. They won't be of any use to her in that state. She went for the kitchen. _Maybe the barista was still there. He should be able to hold his liquor_ she thought. She sighed heavily when she found the kitchen empty. She was about to turn around when she sensed something creeping up behind her.

A belt was tightly wound around her neck. She was gasping as a result of labored breathing. "Where do you think you're going?" a lecherous voice said behind her. Her eyes widened in horror. She desperately tugged at the belt for air.

"Joff, please. I'm sorry." 

He pulled her hair, causing her head to snap back. "I'll kill you for this! Then when you're dead, I'll rape your fucking cunt!" He laughed monstrously.

Sansa stretched her arms, looking for something she could use against him. The belt was growing tighter. She had to act quickly before she dies from strangulation. Her hands found a thick-walled wine bottle. She grabbed its neck and without warning, bludgeoned Joffrey over the head. It was all red, Joffrey's blood mixing with the expensive Château Margaux. Sansa almost regretted this. _Shame. Such a fine vintage wasted like that._ She almost laughed at herself for thinking about it.

She watched Jofffrey stagger towards the kitchen counter and lean on it for support. She snatched a fragment of the broken bottle, concealed it behind her back, and walked to where Joffrey was. 

"S-sansa, what are you doing?" A look of panic crossed his face. His eyes were wild with terror, and he looked like he was about to wet himself. Beads of sweat were on his forehead. 

She did not respond. His jaw dropped as she delicately gripped his cock. He gasped as she began to stroke it gently. In contrast to his already regulated breathing, it was pulsating in her hand. He let out low moans of pleasure.

"I loved you, you know," she spoke, not looking at him. 

"I know. I know. I'm sorry."

"I really did love you." She still wasn't looking at him. Her grip on his cock tightened. He took this as encouragement.

"Make me come, please, sweetie."

She lifted her eyes and looked at his face. Her face was a taut mask, giving away no emotion, whatsoever. He had not anticipated what happened next. She drove the glass shard into his testicles, moving it from side to side, until his cock was severed. Blood was everywhere. He let out a piercing scream. His two heads were bleeding. 

"Sansa, please," he cried. "Please. I'm sorry. Please stop."

She ignored his pleas. She picked up a much longer glass shard and stabbed him through the heart. She felt a hot liquid on her cheeks and realized that she was crying. She dropped the shard and ran out of the house through the back door. Her house was several blocks away, but the shock and panic had taken over her, making her disregard the distance. She did not care about her appearance, either. The wind relentlessly grazed her skin. It was blowing away her torn dress and her disheveled hair. She managed to pull whatever remained of her dress over her exposed flesh. Lipstick was smeared on her face and on the other areas Joffrey laid his lips on. The scent of blood was all over her; the red liquid was dripping from her clothes and hands, while some of it had already dried. Tears continued trickling down her face as she ran like a madman. She began to calm down at the sight of her house. But it looked different. A few seconds had past before it hit her-- her house was on fire!


	3. Guardian

She found herself lying down on a black leather couch. A blanket was wrapped around her. She lifted it, revealing her bloodied outfit. She sat up and pulled her knees tightly to her chest. Her feet were aching from the stilettos she ran in. She was shaking as she tried to make sense out of the events that transpired. Joffrey invited her to his party. He almost raped her. She hit him with a bottle, performed a surgery, and killed him. She leaves the scene, and runs home, only to find her house torched. She put a hand over her mouth. Remembering Joffrey's body, all the blood, and his severed genitalia made her vomit. She tried holding it back, but couldn't. She retched and eventually spewed chunks on the centerpiece of the table in front of her. 

"Miss Stark, I see you're awake." A tall, shapely woman in scrubs appeared. She had chestnut brown hair, which she tied into a simple braid. She smiled warmly, handed her a glass of water, and took a seat beside her. Sansa greedily gulped down the liquid. It helped alleviate the sour taste in her mouth, and the burning sensation at the back of her throat.

"Who are you? Where am I? And what happened to my.." Her voice broke and she started crying again. The woman moved closer, embraced her, and stroked her back mildly. Sansa buried her head in the woman's breasts.

"My name is Ros," said the other woman, "I am a social worker." 

Sansa was still sobbing. She looked up at the woman who was holding her in her arms. Her eyes were full of compassion, which made Sansa sob even more and embrace the woman more tightly. "M-my..my family. Where are they What happened to them?" she asked between her sniffles.

Ros did not want to tell her right away, knowing how doing so would damage the girl. "What do you remember about last night?"

Sansa tried to hold back her tears. "I..I was--"

"It's okay, sweetling. You can tell me slowly."

"I was going home from Joffrey's party. I saw our house and...and fire," she said before bursting into tears.

"Sansa," Ros began, "your family..."

Sansa shook her head violently. "No...no. Please don't say it."

Realizing that there was no gentler way to break the news, Ros apologetically said, "Sansa, they got killed in the fire. I'm sorry."

Sansa couldn't hear or feel anything after those words. She was hyperventilating. Her grip on Ros' waist tightened. Everything in the room started oscillating and warping. She saw her family one last time, smiling at her. Then everything went black.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Okay. I understand. I'll be on my way soon." Call ended.

From his hotel suite, Petyr could glimpse the Tyrrhenian Sea. A glass of wine in hand, he longingly watched the waves gently kiss the shore. The blue reminded him of her. _Cat, the only woman I have ever loved._ His fingers curled into a fist. Despite all the hurtful things she did to him, intentional or not, his love for her was undying. A solitary tear found its way out of his eye. _She's gone forever_ , he told himself. 

He suddenly remembered an encounter from ten years ago with a girl who had the same fiery hair and Tully eyes. The bone structure was wrong, but she was just as beautiful, nonetheless. _She was a child then, but I could see so much of Cat in her. She was not at all a Stark, except probably for that little display of rage before Ned let her go. What was her name again?_

He sipped some wine and continued reminiscing about his beloved Cat.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_She was running away from something. She did not know what it was, but she knew that she had to escape._

_She bid her legs to run faster, but they wouldn't comply. She looked over her shoulder. It was still out there; it was coming for her. She continued moving forward. She could hear a crackling sound, which sounded like the almonds they would usually roast during winter._

_A new shape appeared before her. It became more defined, until she recognized it as her house. It was crimson. She stretched out her arms to touch it, but she simply fell on the ground. She just went through it like a ghost._

_She continued running. It was still chasing her. She stumbled. She got up on her hands and knees. She found herself unable to stand up totally. Claws emerged from her nail beds and fur began growing from beneath her skin. There was something between her sharp fangs. It was tender and had a salty, metallic taste. A distinct coppery scent wafted to her snout. It dawned on her-- she was chomping on male genitalia. Warm, viscous blood dripped down her furry jaw. She let out a howl. A howl like that of a wolf. She could hear something besides the sound she was making._

_"Sansa, no. Please. I'm sorry. Please don't. Sansa!"_

She sprang up from her lying down position, panting. Sweat trickled down her forehead. She could also feel the sticky sensation on her palms and on her chest. Her eyes darted around her, observing the surroundings. _White walls, white ceiling, medical equipment. A hospital._ Despite her thin hospital gown, the room was like a sauna to her. She fought the urge to scratch the part of her wrist where an IV was attached.

The door suddenly opened. Ros entered with a lunchbox in her hand. She had the same kind expression she had during their first meeting.

"The food here tastes terrible, so I took the liberty of making you breakfast," she replied cheerily, "or brunch, if you will."

Sansa put a hand to her throbbing head. Joffrey's screams were echoing in her mind. _God. What time was it?_ She replayed the horrible dream in her head. "Ros, I'm sorry about last time. I, uh, I lost my cool." She blushed and bowed her head down. She couldn't bring herself to look at Ros, not after how she behaved last night.

Ros let out a quick laugh. "Miss Stark, it's okay. I have dealt with cases like this before. That kind of reaction is normal for someone who just lost a loved one." Her face turned serious. She clasped Sansa's hands and held them in hers. "I truly am sorry, Miss Stark. How are you feeling today?"

Sansa fought back her tears. She was very grateful to have Ros by her side. She smiled weakly. "Miss Stark's a little too formal. Please call me Sansa. Thank you, for everything, Ros. I don't know what I would have done without you."

Ros produced a handkerchief and lightly dabbed the tears on Sansa's face. "Are you hungry, Sansa?" The girl nodded.

Ros opened the lunchbox. There were clubhouse sandwiches, lasagna, dumplings, grilled rib eye steak, and assorted pastries. Sansa's stomach growled loudly. The two women giggled. 

"This is really good. Did you make all this?" Sansa asked after swallowing a mouthful of lasagna and dumplings.

"Yes. I tried eating here before. I decided not to let you go through the same experience. Let me tell you, the food here sucks. Shhh." She put her index finger on her lips, as if they were talking about something confidential. Sansa made a "zipping my mouth"gesture.

"How about some dessert?" Ros took out an enormous, circular lemon cake. Sansa's eyes widened in awe. This particular pastry had always been her favorite. She used to procure the main ingredients herself. Her mother would usually ask her to pluck some lemons from their garden. Tears welled up in her eyes at this memory. Ros noticed this but decided not to ask any questions. She gave Sansa a slice of cake.

Tasting the cake made her feel a little better. It was moist and delicious. It was sweet with a zest of lemon. "I love it. It's a lot like my Mom's." Ros smiled and thanked her for the compliment. She poured her a glass of water. 

Sansa thanked Ros for the hearty meal. She was really happy to have this gracious woman with her, but she knew that she wouldn't be by her side forever. Other people will demand her services soon. She imagined how alone she would be. No father, no mother, and no siblings. Her newly found companion will be taken away from her, as well. She dismissed the thought. It was stupid of her to allow herself that much attachment to something so temporary. 

Seemingly reading her thoughts, Ros said, "Sansa, there's something we have to talk about."

Sansa looked at her intently. Ros continued. "You are not of legal age yet. I obviously cannot release you without a guardian." Ros looked for a reaction in Sansa's face; she found none. "Luckily for you, there is someone who is willing to take you under his wing."

 _Who could that be? I'm the only remaining Stark. Maybe it's one of the Tullys. It can't be grandpa Hoster. He no longer lives. Maybe it's Uncle Edmure or Brynden._ Giving up, she asked who it was.

"Petyr Baelish," answered a man's voice. Both Ros and Sansa were startled by his sudden appearance. 

Ros sat up and straightened her clothes. "I'm sorry, Mr. Baelish. I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."

The man gave her a smile, which, Sansa noticed, did not quite reach his eyes. "Ah, Ros, was it? The apology is mine to give. I just wanted to be here as soon as I could. I don't want to keep my niece waiting." An awkward silence filled the room for a couple of minutes. Ros cleared her throat.

"Sansa, this is Petyr Baelish. Surely, you know him? He was married to your late Aunt Lysa."

Sansa thought hard. _Yes, Aunt Lysa was married to someone before she died, but I don't remember to whom. Hmm._ She carefully studied the man before her. He was barely taller than her, yet there was something about how he handled himself that made him seem like someone of a higher stature. He was wearing a lavender long-sleeve button-down shirt with a charcoal necktie and pinstripe slacks. She need not give him a second glance to know that he was a stranger to her.

"I'll leave you two for a moment. I have to get some papers." Ros rose from the bed, nodded curtly at Baelish, and left the room.

Petyr dragged a chair beside the bed and sat down. "Hello, Sansa. Do you remember me?"

She shook her head. His eyes were fixed on her. He was tracing her every outline with his eyes, the way a sculptor would meticulously study his work, looking for any imperfections. It was as if he was taking in every inch of her. He lingered a bit longer on her face. His eyes finally met hers. There was a look in his eyes which she couldn't quite comprehend. Suddenly becoming conscious of the thinness of her garment, she hurriedly slipped under the sheets. She furiously darted her eyes away from him, aware of the tingling sensation in her stomach and the reddish tint of her cheeks. At the corner of her eye, she could see him grinning.


	4. To Prove You Wrong

"Mr. Baelish-"

"Petyr," he corrected.

"Um, okay, Petyr?" she said, finding the name sounding strangely familiar. She was finally able to look at him again. She wondered what color his eyes were. His irises were somewhere between green and grey, which she thought made him look more mysterious than he already is. She noticed that she was fiddling with her fingers. She stopped and rested both hands on her lap. _Why was I fidgeting?_ she thought angrily.

"Yes, sweetling?" Petyr's tone was that of amusement. He was smirking.

"I'm sorry. I really don't recognize you." 

His smirk widened into a smile. His eyes softened slightly, but they still did not match his lips. "That's quite alright. We didn't really meet," he paused, "that often." He gazed into her eyes before speaking again. "Sansa." His hand was sliding his hand across the sheets to meet hers; she did not dare move. The lightness of his touch surprised her. It was as gentle as water. She found it unsettling, and at the same time, soothing.

"I heard about what happened. I know that offering you my apologies won't change anything, but please accept my heartfelt condolences."

Sansa was delighted to hear this. Ever since last night, everyone had been giving her nothing but pitying glances, and apologies. At least there's someone who won't say _I'm sorry_ all the time. She freed her hand from his, and unknowingly threw her arms around his neck. _What am I doing?_ she screamed in her head.

The gesture seemed to have caught Petyr off guard. His mouth hang open for a few seconds. After quickly recovering, his hand flew to the back of Sansa's head, and stroked her auburn hair. Feeling his hand on her hair, she swiftly withdrew. Her face was crimson now. "I didn't. I'm sorry, Petyr." She was stuttering. "I..I didn't mean to..you know...that. I got carried away."

She yearned to know what has gotten her all giddy. Her behaviour towards men wasn't usually like this. She was the ice queen. Her cold demeanor made men nervous and fidgety around her. This man wasn't making even the slightest effort, yet here she was, coming undone.

He was smiling again. For a moment, it did reach his eyes, but it disappeared as soon as it appeared. "I understand." He was absentmindedly looking into the distance. "I wish I got one last chance to see your mother."

This piqued her curiosity. Naturally, he would know her mother because she was Aunt Lysa's sister. Why did he want to see her? Is it because he sees Aunt Lysa in her? Well, he probably still misses his dead wife after all these years. Who wouldn't miss someone whom you swore to spend the rest of your life with?

"Oh, I guess you would not know that. Cat and I were friends since we were children. She, your Aunt Lysa, and I used to be playmates when we were still in Riverrun."

"I see." Sansa was choking back her sobs. She missed her parents and her siblings. Her strict, yet very loving father. Her kind, caring mother, who would fix her hair and encourage her to be more confident in herself. Her sister Arya, whom she constantly quarreled with. Her baby brothers, Bran and Rickon. Her older brother Robb, who was strong, like her father. She wanted to be with them again.

Petyr's hands were on her shoulders. "Let it go, Sansa. There's no need to hide those tears." She rest her head on Petyr's chest and wept. He was a stranger, she knew that very well, but she couldn't help but find solace his arms. _So this is what I've become: a pathetic, orphan girl seeking consolation in strangers._ They remained in that position for a few minutes, until she finally lifted herself off him.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Petyr raised his hand to her before she could utter an apology. "I just...I just couldn't believe I lost them that way. I wish I had just died with them. I wish I hadn't gone to Joffrey's party...then maybe...maybe I'd be with them right now."

"I understand your sentiments, Sansa. But you know, Cat would have wanted you to carry on." 

The room grew silent again. Images of Joffrey came to Sansa's mind. She remembered how he pleaded for his life. _I killed him. I'm a murderer._ She stared at her hands; she could see blood on them, Joffrey's blood. 

"Speaking of Joffrey, I heard you two were engaged. Shouldn't he be the first to visit you here, with him being your fiancée and all?"

Sansa snapped back to reality. She nearly rolled her eyes. _Fuck Joffrey. That pretentious spoiled brat wouldn't give a rat's ass about me._ She looked at Petyr nervously. "I am to marry him, yes." _Should I tell him? Can I trust this guy? What if he turns me in?_ These thoughts were swirling in her head. Her mind was telling her to hold her piece, but a part of her wanted to confide in him. She was feeling nauseated.

"I know what happened, sweetling."

Her heartbeat quickened. She tried controlling her breathing but her breaths have become rapid and shallow already. "W-what do you mean?"

That expression again. It frustrated her. What is it that he finds so amusing that he has that look on his face all the time? He clucked his tongue. "I see lying is not your expertise, although that was expected. However, you can do better than that, you know?" His eyes were mocking her. _He knows. But how? Oh, it doesn't matter. I should do something. But what? Will I be shedding blood again?_ she thought, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

"You killed him, didn't you?" It sounded more like a statement than a question. 

"How did you--"

"I have eyes and ears." He took the remote control from her bedside table and turned the television on. He changed the channel to BBC News. 

"Joffrey Baratheon, son of business tycoon, Robert Baratheon, was found dead this morning in his apartment in King's Landing complex. Specifics of his death have not yet been released, but our sources tell us that he has been stabbed through the heart using a shard of glass." 

Some pictures of the apartment were flashed, showing the partygoers who were lying all over the place. When Joffrey's dead body appeared on the screen, her stomach turned. She wanted to vomit again. Fortunately, Petyr noticed all of this. He pulled the trashbin towards the bed, and held it in front of her. He handed her a napkin afterwards. They continued watching the news.

They were interviewing Cersei Lannister. Sansa's mother-in-law-to-be was an unwelcome sight to her. Cersei wasn't hideous or anything like that. Quite the contrary, she was immaculate. Blonde hair and emerald eyes, just like Joffrey and every other Lannister out there, she carries herself with poise and confidence. She always seemed to command respect and fear. Sansa recalls how every word that Cersei uttered was drenched with venom, and how much of a hypocrite she was. She couldn't understand why she [Cersei] held that much hatred towards her. All she knew was that the feeling was mutual. They would often exchange fake smiles and pleasantries during gatherings. Sansa had always thought that her external beauty served as a compensation for the ugliness she had inside. 

Cersei was as beautiful as ever. Only this time, she had this crazed, desperate look on her face. "Sansa Stark, his fiancee. I know she had something to do with this. I just know." She was already yelling. "Sansa! I know it was you. I know!" Tywin Lannister had to restrain her with his arms. The cameras were turned off. 

Petyr was observing her the whole time. She sensed this and wondered if his eyes ever left her. For a while there, he had a look that could be mistaken for concern, but she dismissed it as a figment of her imagination. She opened her mouth to say something but closed it as an afterthought. 

"I didn't know you had it in you. I was surprised that you actually did it. I couldn't believe it at first, but when I saw the tapes..." his sentence trailed off.

"Tapes? What tapes?" _Damn. Of course Joffrey had security cameras installed around his state-of-the-art apartment._

"Oh, my dear Sansa," he said as he lazily gathered a wisp of her copper hair, and tucked it behind her ear. "I saw everything. Don't worry. I had one of my men wiped the disks clean. Cersei's accusations may be true, but without any concrete evidence, they can't pin the murder on you."

She wasn't sure which was more bothersome: the thought of being under surveillance the entire time, or his close proximity to her? A single touch was enough to render her speechless. She noted how her breath hitched at his earlier gesture. _This is no time for that! He can rat you out to the Lannisters at any moment._ She slid closer to the headboard of her bed, earning another one of Petyr's amused grins. She let her eyes wander around the room. She spotted a steak knife lying on the bedside table. _Ros must have forgotten it._ An idea crept into her mind.

Sansa snatched the remote from Petyr's hands, while stretching her right arm to grab the knife. As she did this, she intentionally lifted her sheets using her knees to further distract him. She successfully tucked the weapon behind her underwear. _Yes!_ she cheered triumphantly in her head. _Now what?_

_What the fuck?_ Petyr was clearly taken aback by this. His eyes widened for a second before returning to normal.

"Sorry, Petyr. There was just something else I wanted to see," Sansa lied. _Go on. Keep it rolling. Lying may not be my forte, but that's not gonna stop me from proving you wrong._ She busied herself with channel surfing, hoping to find anything featuring the Starks.

"You could've just asked me to change the channel, sweetling." He watched her press the buttons on the controller. She finally found something about the house fire.

"Investigators are now looking into the fire that destroyed the Stark mansion. Five bodies have been recovered. They were identified to be Catelyn, Robb, Arya, Brandon, and Rickon Stark. The eldest daughter, Sansa Stark, is reportedly alive. She had been outside the Stark household during the fire."

He watched the teardrops fall from her downcast eyes and land on her lap. He stared at her in amazement. Scenes from his fight, if one could even call it that, with Brandon Stark recurred to him. He remembered Cat's crying face while she begged Brandon to spare Petyr's life. _Right in front of me, Cat's flesh and blood. But Sansa is no Cat. She is just as beautiful, nonetheless._

Despite the emotional blitzkrieg she was experiencing, she was still able to think clearly. Getting rid of this potential witness was all that she had in mind. _I have to do something,_ she convinced herself. She gripped the knife behind her back. "Would it be weird if asked you to embrace me again?" She didn't wait for him to answer; she collapsed in his arms.

Petyr wrapped his arms around her shoulders. The sweet scent of her hair permeated the air and teased his nose. He was having difficulty in restraining himself from doing anything _inappropriate._ The pleasant sensation was ruined by a sharp pain in his back.

A deep red stain marred his lavender shirt. Sansa couldn't believe she had done it. Her hands trembled as she tried to maintain a grip on the knife. She could still hear him breathing.

"Sansa, what are you doing? You- ow!" She stabbed him once more. He was still embracing her.

"Petyr, I can't let you live," she muttered under her breath while pushing the knife even deeper into his wound. Petyr arched his back as the blade dug into his skin. Sansa withdrew the knife. She raised her arm to prepare for another attack. Petyr took advantage of this, grabbing her by the arms, and pushing her against the headboard. He watched in horror as a twisted smile was slowly etched on her lips. Her grip on the knife started loosening.

"Petyr. Petyr. Petyr, isn't that a traitor's name?" Tears were trickling down her face now. "You're gonna betray me, too, aren't you? Like Peter did Jesus?" She smiled wryly.

The knife hit the floor with a clang. "I won't turn you in, if that's what you're thinking," he said nonchalantly as he undid his necktie and unbuttoned his shirt. He was wearing a black v-neck undershirt now. He folded his stained garments neatly and placed them on the bedside table. "Give me your hands. The social worker is going to be here any minute." He instructed her to raise her hands above the trashbin. He took the flower vase and washed the blood off her hands. "Remember, clean hands always. Feeling like Pontius Pilate now?"

Sansa laughed softly at his joke. Only a few people are capable of being humorous in situations like this. If she were with someone else, she'd probably be a piece of cheese from all the stab wounds she'd be getting.

Ros burst through the doors. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. Some things came up. Mr. Bae- oh my god! What happened here?"

A feeling of dread came over Sansa. _What am I supposed to say? Hi, Ros. I just tried to kill my uncle by stabbing him with the steak knife that you forgot._

"My apologies, Ros," Petyr answered in the nick of time. "Sansa came across this knife earlier and tried to play with it. When I asked her to hand it to me, I cut myself by accident." He opened his palm to reveal a gash. Sansa sighed in relief. _Perfect timing, Petyr._ She avoided another disastrous situation thanks to him. She felt a pang guilt, as well, seeing how he wounded himself just to save her the trouble of having to explain things.

"Oh dear. We have to tend to your wound immediately."

"That won't be necessary. It's not deep."

"Oh, I insist, Mr. Baelish."

Petyr said nothing and left the room. _He'll probably take this opportunity to have the wound on his back treated,_ Sansa thought. She felt itchy on her wrist as Ros detached the IV. Ros immediately put a bandage over the area where the needle once was, and helped her out of her gown. Your uncle told me to give you this," Ros said, handing her a paper bag. Inside it were a knee length powder blue sundress, black bikini panties and strapless lace bra, and a pair of beige _Jane Vendomes_. Sansa was impressed by the man's taste in clothing. _Now, how did he get all my measurements right?_ She paid the thought no more attention, and got dressed.

"You look lovely, Sansa," Ros remarked while she brushed the girl's hair. Sansa thanked her for the compliment.

"I agree. I hope they are the right size." Petyr returned with a gauze wrapped around his hand. Sansa blushed and made him a small curtsy. "Thank you, uncle."

After minutes of reassuring Ros that his hand was alright, he signed a few more documents. The woman accompanied them to the lobby, where she hugged Sansa one last time, and bid her farewell.


	5. Welcome to the Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this update took so long.  
> I've been busy with summer classes, you see. :)

A silver Lamborghini convertible awaited them in the parking lot. "After you, sweetling," he smiled as he held the door open for her. Once inside, he pressed a button to unfold the retractable hardtop, engulfing them in darkness.

Sansa admired the interior of Petyr's luxury car. The seats were covered in mauve leather. She had always found that color inscrutable, just like that of Petyr's eyes. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the rearview mirror, and reminisced about her own father's car. She and Arya would always fight over who should sit alongside the driver. Their father would usually let Arya ride shotgun, much to Sansa's annoyance and dismay. It was no secret to Sansa that Ned has always had a soft spot for Arya and that he had a tendency to favor her. She had heard once that her younger sister was a spitting image of her Aunt Lyanna.

Her expression turned grim. _Death. It certainly is the fate that befalls all men, but need it occur in brutal ways for us, Starks?_ Twelve years ago, her Aunt Lyanna was kidnapped by the Targaryens. During an attempt to rescue her, her Uncle Brandon was strangled to death while her Grandfather Richard was killed in a grenade explosion. Her aunt fell into a depression and committed suicide shortly after. Three years later, after being shot to death, her father, Ned, was reunited with the other Starks. Her Uncle Benjen died in the war in Iraq. And just recently, her mother, Catelyn, together with Robb, Bran, Arya, and Rickon, got burned in a house fire. The only one missing is her.

_The car was probably blown to smithereens during the fire, along with their house and what was left of my family. I had not even gotten a chance to drive it myself._ Tears threatened to fall once again. _Stupid. You have to be strong. They're gone. Crying won't bring them back._

She shifted her glance to Petyr hoping to distract herself from sadness and anger. He hadn't cast his eyes on her since they entered the vehicle. He was occupied by driving. She took this opportunity to observe him more closely.

He had a triangular face, with a chin lying somewhere between squarish and pointed, leaning towards the latter. He had high wide cheekbones, and dimples, which were only visible when he turns up the corners of his lips. His ever-mocking, deep-set eyes had grey-green irises. Sansa was reminded of the metaphor _the eyes are the windows to the soul_. In Petyr's case, there was no soul to be seen. His eyes were windows to nothingness. It was like staring into a grey-green abyss.  


Her eyes moved to his nose now. It had narrow nostrils and a pointed tip. Under it was a neatly-manicured mustache, which covered the upper part of his thin, masculine lips. He had a goatee and a beard with a few greying hairs. She tried picturing him without the facial hair below his eyebrows and eyelashes; she found it quite pleasing. _He's not unhandsome. He's actually attractive._ A smile slowly crept upon her face. _Wait, what? What am I thinking?_ The color rose to her cheeks. She slapped them with both hands and shut her eyes.  


"Problem, Sansa?" he asked, one brow raised in silent question. He looked in her direction before abruptly returning his eyes to the road.

Her face still flushed. She turned to the window to avoid showing him her redness. _I will not give you the satisfaction of seeing my discomfort._ "Nothing, Petyr," she replied, still surprised at her having grown accustomed to addressing him that way. Sansa was grateful for him, really. There was a sense of security in his company and she really wanted to trust him, but she couldn't bring herself to. "I was just wondering why you're helping me. I mean, after the, you know, _backstabbing_ thingy, how can you still want to help me? Are you fine with harboring a murderer?" She swallowed hard. "Especially the murderer of someone as famous as Joffrey Baratheon?

Petyr chucked. "You may not know this, but I owe your mother quite a debt." He leaned closer to her, still keeping a steady hand on the steering wheel. "Rest easy, my sweet. You're safe with me." It was barely audible, but she was close enough to hear it.

"No." She rose from her seat, causing her head to collide with the roof. She groaned while she massaged her aching head.

Petyr feigned an exasperated sigh and faced her. "No?"

She met his intimidating gaze with a scowl. She had no use for half-diplomatic answers or any empty promises. She has heard enough of those from Joffrey. She already made it painfully obvious that she distrusts him. "What are you planning, Petyr?"

"You are a fast learner. First lesson: trust no one." He suddenly hit the brakes and watched Sansa jerk forward and hit the dashboard. "Inertia," he shrugged as he stood up to exit the vehicle, "That's what seatbelts are for." He opened the passenger side door and held out his hand to her. "We're here."

She glared at him while uttering curses under her breath. She knew that it was deliberate. _Why are you being such a pain in the ass?_ She slammed the door shut when she stepped out of the car. Her annoyance dissipated as she marveled at the helicoidal building which towered above her like a great monolith of steel and concrete. She thought of it as the metal version of the DNA double helix. "It's magnificent. Is it yours?"

He was almost moved to tears. He saw seven-year-old Sansa again. "Yes. It's mine." he replied.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The room was slightly wider than her old one. The walls were white with ripple mark-like designs, which reminded her of the shores of Blackwater Bay, where Joffrey kissed her for the first time. There were four lampshades: one each on the tan three-drawer nightstands which stood on both sides of her bed; another on top of her coffee table; and one beside her periwinkle duchesse brisée. Her bed had a chocolate brown frame with a padded footboard, and a white mattress and pillows. Facing it were two white built-in bookshelves, which surprisingly, were filled with hard copies of some of her favorite literary works. In between these shelves was an empty doorframe, which led to a ridiculously enormous dressing room. There was a massive white dresser in line with the bed, and an equally huge shoerack. The empty walls of the room were lined with mirrors, allowing a closer scrutiny of one's appearance. She opened the dresser. There were assorted dresses, jeans, and blouses. Most of the dresses were casual and conservative; there were some pieces that were more daring and revealing. While the garments were of various colors, she noticed that blue was dominant. _How can this man know so much about me? Okay, maybe mom and Aunt Lysa could have told him a few things about me. How could he possibly know my personal tastes?_ Her eyelids were growing heavy. She took her shoes off and unzipped her dress. She laid on her bed clad in only her undergarments. Before falling into a dreamless slumber, she thought she saw someone leaning on the doorframe.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ascertaining that she was asleep, he carried her desk chair and put it in front of the nightstand on the right side of the bed. He reclined his back and watched her. She was sleeping on her right side, facing him. _Lace looks good on her_ he grinned mischievously when he noticed that she wasn't wearing anything else. He pulled a sheet over her body. His breaths were in-sync with the rising and falling of her chest. She didn't snore like Lysa did. _Lysa. Why did I marry her? Of course. Money._ He never really liked her. _It was always Cat,_ she would always say out of self-pity. He'd be lying if he denied it. There was once a time that he pitied Lysa. She always won second place— their father's love, beauty, academics, sports, and men; her sister bested her at practically everything. A long time ago, he had already realized that he was no different from her. Just like her, he joins the marathon, the endless pursuit for love, and doesn't place at all. _It was stupid of me not to see it sooner. A brother, a confidant, that was all that I could ever hope to be. You could never love me as much as you did Brandon or Eddard._

"Daddy."

He was surprised to find her talking in her sleep. He brushed aside the strands of hair dangling over her face and noticed a tiny creek starting from the corner of her eye. _Is it guilt that I am feeling?_ Even if the murder of Ned Stark was at the Lannisters' bidding, he had to admit that he wanted him to disappear, too. A part of him felt horrible; He knew that losing Ned will wound Cat very badly. He both hated and admired the man. Ned Stark was born into a wealthy family, had a great upbringing, and was desired by women. Aside from the surface characteristics, he had a functioning moral compass. He was one of the most noble men he had ever encountered. He was an even finer specimen than Brandon Stark. How could Petyr Baelish, a man of low birth, a man who had nothing, compete with him? Even after his death, he was still better than he was. He recalled his last conversation with Cat, which was a week after Ned's death. _You've lost your mind. Get out!_ These words were ringing in his ears. There was anger and loathing in her eyes when she pointed a dagger at him. It saddened him greatly that she scorned him. Perhaps it's for the best. Either be loved, or be hated, nothing in between. In an alternate universe, wherein he would be a theist, he would probably dislike the concept of purgatory. He would rather burn in hell than wait indefinitely. Once love is denied, things cannot revert to the way they once were. His affections will remain disproportionate to hers.

He slouched to plant a kiss on Sansa's forehead, but withdrew before his lips could even graze her skin. "Cat," he whispered to himself. After returning the chair to its original place, he switched off the lights and left the room.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sansa woke up with an unpleasant stiffness in her neck. Turning her head was difficult and painful. "Ouch. I'm starting to regret sleeping in that position." She reached back with her arm and grasped her neck. She dug in her fingers and her thumbs, and squeezed them together. She continued massaging her neck until she was able to move it with less pain. She turned over when she heard an SMS alert tone. Petyr had given her a new phone, since she lost the old one. She can't even remember if she left it at Joffrey's or if it got caught in the fire. It was the same model and color. She frowned when she couldn't find any of her old contacts or her pictures. _What am I thinking? IT'S A NEW PHONE._ She sighed and read Petyr's text. _Breakfast on rooftop._ The building was 700 ft. high and had 45 floors, excluding the basement and the rooftop. Her room, as well as Petyr's, were on the thirtieth floor. She took a quick shower. She chose a white above-knee length A-line skirt dress with black mesh sleeves and paired them with purple chambray wedge booties. She decided to just let her hair down. After taking one final look in the mirror, she got on an elevator.

She was greeted by Petyr and some younger-looking strangers. Petyr signaled her to occupy the empty seat beside his. "Rough night, sweetling?" he asked.

Their eyes were on her; they were sizing her up. She found this uncomfortable. "Not at all, Petyr," she replied, forcing a smile. She sat beside him. "I'm sorry for being late. I wasn't expecting company." She almost rolled her eyes at the last word.

"No problem. We just got here, actually," said one of the strangers. "I'm Harrold Hardyng, but you can call me Harry." He seemed to be the same age as she was. He had sandy brown hair and deep blue eyes. He was wearing a red diamond checkered sweater vest over a white long-sleeve button-down shirt, and black trousers. Judging by the way he was staring and smiling at her, he was obviously trying to flirt with her. He was more muscular, but he reminded her too much of Joffrey. The resemblance aside, she instantly disliked this man because she found him arrogant and boring.

"Forgive him, Sansa. He's just excited to meet you. I'm Myranda Royce, by the way. Randa, if you want," a female voice interrupted Harry's endless babbling. _Is he always like this?_ Sansa wanted to ask. Myranda extended her arm, offering a handshake. "Pleasure to meet you, Myranda," she said as she shook hands with her. Myranda was slightly older than she was. Her teal flounced crepe dress was tight and had a low neckline, showing off almost every _asset_ she had. Sansa couldn't help but notice her oddly large breasts, which were disproportionate to her short stature. Both her eyes and her hair were brown.

There was one more stranger who hasn't spoken. She was the most mysterious-looking among the three. She was a petite woman, who was taller than Myranda, but shorter than Sansa. She had black wavy shoulder-length hair and large dark eyes. She was wearing a black form-fitting dress which exposed her toned midriff. "Social convention dictates that I introduce myself. My name is Shae." Her accent was foreign to Sansa. She thought it was Mediterranean or one of the Germanic languages. "Oh," Shae added, "in case you were wondering, I am German."

Sansa had no idea what to make of this meeting. She threw Petyr a look that said _I demand an explanation._ Petyr simply sniggered at her clueless expression. "Sweetling, you must be confused. Let's just say that Harry, Myranda, and Shae are your future coworkers."


	6. Want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many days have passed since my last update? I'm really sorry.  
> Exams and other requirements came up. I even had to shoot an entertaining educational video for language class. 
> 
> Anyway, chapter six. :)

It was a warm Sunday morning. The sunlight was streaming into her room like harpoons plunging into water. Sansa donned a navy blue polyester tank top, white track shorts, and yellow-green Reeboks. She hurried to the gym and performed calf stretches, glancing at her watch every fifteen seconds. Yesterday, over breakfast, Petyr had just informed her that she will be involved in intelligence gathering as one of his employees.

"What is the root word of coworkers? You are going to _work_ with them, obviously," she recalled him saying with a knowing smile. He was obviously relishing the bitter-sweet taste of the ristretto in his mouth, but she knew that wasn't the only reason behind his cheery disposition. The brew, as well as the view was delectable. That enraged expression of hers was really delightful for him to watch, especially when she attempts to conceal it and fails miserably. Her lips changed from a horizontal line to a parabola opening downwards. She assumed he meant that she would be working like one of those scantily-clad men and women she once saw in the lower floors of the building. Investments, he called them. _Everything is business to him_ , she sighed, _I am probably just a commodity, an opportunity in his eyes._

Never, not even in her wildest dreams, had she intended to become a spy. It was a dangerous occupation. She recognized her own physical weakness. Her victory over Joffrey, and her assassination attempt on Petyr were only results of having the element of surprise. Her reaction time wasn't very bad, but her movements are a little on the sluggish side. "I can't possibly do that. I'll definitely get caught. My abilities aren't good enough," she protested. Her objections earned her a reminder of the crime she had committed. _"Enlighten me again, what is your body count?"_ These words echoed in her mind. "Body count," Sansa mused with an inner shudder. She only managed to kill Joffrey because he wasn't expecting her to. She was not a hired killer or anything like that; a frightened girl was all she was.

She pushed her musings aside, gaping at Shae's chiseled abs, which were fully exposed by her sports bra. The woman profusely apologized for her tardiness. Suddenly feeling embarrassed of her own body, Sansa could only manage a slight bob of her head. Her midsection was not flabby; it was actually quite toned for someone who had no regular exercise, but it paled in comparison to this German woman's.

Shae was an expert in close quarter combat, and was exceptionally skilled with blades. She had gained notoriety as a mercenary in Belarus and in Netherlands, making prominent politicians and infamous hitmen drop like flies. There was even a rather distasteful story about how she flayed a man alive using just a nail file. A part of Sansa was engulfed by fear, threatened; another was amazed. She wanted to become like her, to fight independently, to be able to avenge her family.

"I see you're finished stretching. Warm up for 10 minutes on that treadmill," Shae instructed as stepped onto the one adjacent to her. They proceeded to resistance training afterwards.

"Ever lifted weights before?" Shae lifted a pair of ten pound dumbbells, hefting them before she handing them to Sansa.

"Um, no. I don't really workout. The only exercise I get is when I walk around school or when I go shopping," Sansa confessed. She bit her lower lip and struggled to avoid dropping the weights. Her siblings had always been inclined to physical activities. Her brothers trained at early ages, as each of them wanted to be in the military. Robb was aiming for the British Army, Bran the Royal Navy, and Rickon the Special Airforce Service. Naturally, their mother didn't approve of this because of the sword of Damocles looming over their heads. Arya was a well-rounded dancer and martial artist. At age five, she won the Telstra Ballet Dancer Award, back when they were still residing in Australia. This made the entire family very proud, as she was the youngest dancer to ever receive that award. When they migrated to the UK, she entered the Royal Academy of Dance. She started learning other dance genres from her friends at judo and aikido clubs. _She should be competing at the Prix de Lausanne this year,_ Sansa thought with a pain in her chest.

Shae gazed at her sympathetically and sighed. "Let's try it with one hand first."

\------------------------------------------------------

The new exercise regimen wasn't treating her body well. It was only the first day, yet her aching muscles were killing her. She wanted to visit a spa. She slouched in her chair, as it was difficult to maintain an upright posture while sitting, something that she had gotten used to growing up. _Oh, my governess would definitely commend my proper etiquette,_ she told herself sarcastically.

"Sansa, is something the matter?" Petyr asked. He seemed genuinely concerned, but she couldn't shake off her misgivings.

"No. I'm fine. It's just," she locked her fingers and extended her arms in front of her, "sore muscles." She crunched her knuckles, producing a cracking sound. Shae was a nice person, but she was very strict and serious when it came to training. In a few weeks, she will be taught hand combat skills, and eventually she'll be wielding knives. The prospect of becoming an assassin like Shae thrilled and excited her.

Petyr put his glass down and rose from his chair. "Relax, my beloved," he spoke softly as he gently massaged her shoulders. He moved his thumbs in a circular motion, eliciting grumbles, which gradually transformed into soft moans that sounded seductive and sexually arousing. He proceeded to her shoulder blades, applying just the right amount of pressure. Out of the blue, Sansa asked, "Why are you doing this? What's in it for you?"

He moved back to her upper trapezius, squeezing her shoulders in a steady rhythm. A smile played on his lips as he listened to her gasp. "Massaging you, you mean? I am helping you loosen up. Is there anything wrong with that?"

Distracted by the movement of his hands, Sansa could not come up with a clever response. She wanted to concentrate on the conversation, but her body was drowning in ecstasy. With every touch, he sends scintillas of electricity coursing through her body, stripping her of her usual inhibitions. She could feel goosebumps developing, and her body hair standing. The pleasurable sensation was eating her alive. She needed to bring an end to it, but she knew that she would yearn for his touch the moment his hands leave her. Something else was bothering her. Her nipples were protruding, and were harder than normal. There was a strange throbbing throughout her pelvic area, which was followed by a dampness in her crotch. _Seriously? Aroused by a neck and shoulder massage? The hell is wrong with me?_ she squirmed. She needed some kind of release. She felt so close to an orgasm, when he suddenly stopped. A mixture of annoyance and relief hit her. She spun around to face him.

"That's enough for tonight," Petyr said flatly. It was cruel of him to not let her reach the climax of sexual excitement, and he was aware of that. He turned on his heel and left the dining area.

"Wait!" she commanded, finally regaining composure, "You haven't answered my question."

His back was still turned on her. "Tsk tsk. I think I already have. It's-"

"Yes. You owe my mother. What are you planning to do with me?" she interrupted him. Her voice was a decibel louder than she had intended; she did not care. She no longer believed in kindness without ulterior motives. Everyone was after something, that was a truth that she turned a blind eye to as a child. She can't afford to be stupid now. People want her dead.

He turned around, lighting a cigarette, which, after a tiring day, he was very eager to smoke. "It's not a question of what I want. It's what you want," he replied matter-of-factly. He took a deep drag and exhaled.

A minty, burnt tobacco smell intruded her olfactory system. She instinctively pinched her nose and watched the silver grey tendrils of smoke swirling in the air. It was aesthetically pleasing against the bleak night sky, like a spectral fox materializing out of the blackness. "Revenge," she mumbled unmindfully. She noticed Petyr's expectant look beneath the hazy fog. "I want it...more than anything."

Blowing smoke rings, he walked toward the table, picked up the ashtray and finally extinguished his cigarette. "I have always found that to be the purest of motivations," he said. Putting another stick in his mouth, he added, "If that's what you truly desire, I'll help you." The second that the cigarette was lit, Sansa snatched it and put it in her own mouth.

"What the hell are you-" he exclaimed, watching her tear at her throat and cough loudly. He retrieved the burning roll of tobacco and crushed it with the sole of his shoe.

Sansa was feeling light-headed. The experience jogged her memory of her first sip of alcohol, only it was like swallowing charred leaves mixed with bits of paper. It left a burning sensation and a menthol aftertaste, which she found refreshing.

"Smooth," Petyr shrugged, passing her a glass of water. "This is obviously your first time. What were you thinking?"

"I've always wondered what it tasted like. I've already tried alcohol, so I thought, how about smoking?" she answered with a slight irritation in her voice. Any trace of anger that she had slowly dissolved into a sad smile as she divulged the summary of her life. "My mother would never allow me to indulge in vices. I had to be clean, sophisticated- perfect. The eldest daughter of Eddard Stark, I was the future CEO of Stark Enterprises, and at the proper age, Westeros. Robb made it brutally clear that he had no interest in running the family business when he sparred with dad, stormed off, and enlisted for the army. Dad forgave him, of course. He was just troubled by the possibility of losing his son." She poured wine into her glass and continued. "Joffrey and I were supposed to manage the company together, as Mr. and Mrs. Baratheon. I made the mistake of loving him too soon. I clung to my _stupid_ childish fantasies of handsome princes with strong arms and kind hearts." She was gripping the glass so tightly it that it was close to breaking. Not wanting to waste the fine glassware, she shakily put it on the table. "He was a monster. He never loved me. All he wanted was to _fuck_ me. H-he got what he deserved, that son of a bitch." She drank more wine. "After murdering my prince charming, I arrive home, only to find my family slaughtered, roasted like pigs. Tell me, dear uncle. Tell me. What have I done to deserve all of this?!"

Petyr's heart ached as he witnessed her breakdown. It was very similar to the one she had in the hospital. She was striving to meet everybody's expectations; she deserved none of her misfortune. He wrapped her arm around his neck, put a hand on her hip, and lifted her from where she was sitting. He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dried her eyes. As he did this, Sansa grabbed him by the lumbar region, drawing his torso closer to her, and tucking her head in his chest. "My poor lost girl," he crooned into her ear as delicately moved his hand along her auburn locks, "I am sorry I cannot do anything to alleviate your agony."

She raised her chin, revealing her eyes swollen from crying. She was still clutching the back of his coat, staring intently into his eyes for what seemed like an eternity.

"You aren't planning to stab me in the back again, are you?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood. He started feeling her hands on his nape. Her fingers interlocked as she lowered his head and drew him in for a kiss. It was a chaste one. The innocence of the act made him shiver in exhilaration, like he was a boy again, tasting a girl's lips for the first time. He savored the sweet softness of her warm, moist lips, which were just the perfect shade of pink. The same rosy scarlet color spread over her cheeks, further improving her childlike appearance. "Thank you, Petyr," she hummed, "I feel better already."


	7. Locks

Apart from the usual fatigue she experiences after her rigorous training, she felt dizzy and nauseous. She could not identify the mood that she was in- there was irritability accompanied by paranoia and an irrational revulsion towards everything. A string of obscenities left her mouth as rays of light penetrated the darkness of her room. Like a vampire having its silent, peaceful crypt disturbed, she hissed, drawing the drapes and covering herself with her blankets. Unable to stand the ambient traffic noise and the hum of the machines, she shut her eyes and covered her ears. "Fuck. Give me a break!" she shouted angrily. Still underneath her sheets, she desperately fumbled for her phone.

"Petyr...fuck! The world is conspiring against me," she spat, sounding almost delirious with her slurred speech. "You told me you'll hel-" She ran to the bathroom and bent over the toilet bowl.

On the other line, Petyr could hear someone retching. He exhaled deeply and returned the receiver to his ear. "Sansa? Are you there?" Her voice was garbled but he was able to make out the words "One moment." White wine produces a far worse hangover than vodka ever could, unless one had the stomach for copious amounts of the latter. He should have hidden the flagon before she got her hands on it. She had imbibed too much alcohol for her capacity.

"Where the hell are you? And why the fuck is it so bright in my room?" she groaned. _Never again_ , she thought. It was the first time she'd gotten really drunk. In the parties she attended in the past, she would drink only two to three cocktails of low alcohol volume. Whenever Joffrey or another male offers to buy her a drink, she usually either declines, or throws the liquor and pretends to have consumed it. Last night, she totally lost track of her intake.

"There's an intercom for that, sweetling. Sleep and rehydrate. I've already informed Shae about your predicament, so you need not concern yourself about training. Good morning and goodnight, love," he said before hanging up.

The disconnect tone irritated her so much that she slammed the phone on her mattress. She slowly dragged herself into a plank position and hit the button on the intercom. "Oui, Madame Alayne?" a man's voice answered. _Alayne? Ah, of course._ Her presence has put Petyr in a very precarious position; the slightest mistake can cost him his life. It is only logical for him to keep her identity secret. "Kindly bring me a cappuccino, a tray of lemon cakes, and a glass of water. Yes, that would be all. Oh wait, an ice pack. Okay, thank you." It did not even take the servants five minutes to deliver the items that she had demanded.

"Excellent service," she muttered to herself while positioning the ice pack on her forehead. She was about to indulge in her coffee and cakes when she heard someone knock on the door. "What now," she grumbled. Adjusting her voice to avoid sounding rude, she asked who it was.

"Randa here," answered the voice behind the door. Myranda was carrying a large fruit basket and a store-bought red rose bouquet. She set them on the nightstand and sat at the foot of the bed. "Harry sends his regards," she beamed, "Aren't the flowers lovely?"

Sansa controlled herself, careful not to roll her eyes as she read the message on the heart-shaped card embedded in the crimson petals.

_Dearest Sansa_ , 

_It has come to my attention that you have fallen ill. It pains my heart to know that you are in pain. Pardon my absence in the hour of your utmost need. I would be greatly honored to be your rock. However, an urgent matter came up, requiring my immediate attention._

_Please accept these flowers, a mere imitation of your pulchritude. Their beauty is only ephemeral, whereas yours is enduring, eternal, deathless. I hope to see you soon._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Harrold_

Of course, the roses were from Harry. Sansa had many suitors, but she doubted that any of them knew her location, or the fact that she was even alive. She looked over to Myranda, who was clearly enthralled by the romantic language. "So he's a poetic knight now?"

"He's just being sweet, Sansa," Myranda said defensively. "Why don't you give him a chance? You've dated other men before, right? Maybe it's time you," she paused to choose her words carefully, "open up your heart again."

The tragic murder of her family had caused her disillusionment in romance, true love, and happy endings. She was starting to view the world with the eyes of a pessimist and cynic. "I'm not really in the mood for that right now. All I want is to finish the job."

"All right. I respect that," she said coolly. Abruptly changing the topic, she asked about Sansa's "illness."

"It's just a hangover," she replied, smiling embarrassedly and shaking her head. As she filled her in on what particular beverage she had ingested, she felt a disconcerting feeling sweep over her. What words have sputtered out of her mouth during her drunkenness? She had the slightest inkling of what she could have told Petyr. _Shit_ , she cursed in her head. She had displayed weakness to him one time too many.

Myranda laughed. "Your first hangover, huh? Don't fret. There'll be more now that I'm around," she winked. She lightly slapped Sansa's hand, which was reaching for her cup of coffee. "Caffeine, really? Sansa, that will only make you feel worse. Stick to water and fruits. Trust me, I've been there."

Sansa obediently consumed the banana that Myranda was feeding her. The awkwardness of the entire thing was compounded by her unexpected recollection of Joffrey's amputated appendage. She quickly swallowed her last bite of the fruit and washed it down with water. Thinking that she will not be getting another opportunity to be alone with her, she made inquiries. "Are you and Petyr close?"

The question surprised Myranda. "I wouldn't say close. He rarely discloses anything personal or top secret, but he trusts us enough when it comes to our missions," she responded. "He's cold, you know. Numb, even. No wonder he doesn't have a girlfriend despite his looks."

_Yes, a handsome ice king._ "He did marry once. He was my Aunt Lysa's husband," she said, although as usual, she could not find memories of him with her aunt. It was like one of those lockets that can contain photographs; there was an empty space intended for another picture.

"Was he?" the other woman said in astonishment. "Did not know that. Well, he has always been a private man." She stood and stretched her short arms and legs. "That was interesting. I'd better get going. Shae will kill me if I'm late."

"Shae isn't exactly punctual," Sansa remarked, "She was late on our first day."

Myranda chuckled at her high regard for punctuality. "Get some rest, dear. I'll check up on you again tonight."

Sansa sprang up and grabbed Myranda's hand. "Please take me with you," she pleaded, "I don't want to be cooped up in here all day."

Myranda looked at her as if she were a deranged lunatic. "But you have to rest. And even if you didn't, is it okay for you to be seen outside? And how long would it take you to groom yourself?"

"I'll be quick. I promise," she assured her. She moved across the room to her dresser and retrieved a tiny rectangular box. "You can dye my hair blonde. This one's washable, anyway," she added, gesturing at the box.


	8. Dragon's Invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys. I have not updated this fic for more than a week now. Sorry about that. Summer classes are finally over for me. I think I'll be able to post chapters more quickly.

"Valar Morghulis," read the huge sign at the arched entrance, which looked like a myriad of different blades that have been melted and welded. A friend of Myranda's recommended that they visit this newly-constructed amusement park. "It's wicked sick," she was told.

The park had a glaringly obvious horror theme. It looked like a concentration camp, with every single ride acting as a medieval torture device. Instead of the typical swinging pirate or Viking ship, there was a jagged blade longitudinally splitting in half a naked human that has been hung upside down. There was also a ride that resembled the Catherine Wheel. The person will be strapped spreadeagled to the spokes and rims of a gigantic wooden wagon wheel, which would slowly revolve. As the velocity increases, the person's limbs are smashed by iron hammers while a hail of daggers bore into him/her. The hammer blows were painless, of course. The knives were laser-guided, designed to hit only the wheel. Log flumes were replaced by metal coffins sliding along a seemingly endless vertebral column, and into a pool of warm, viscous blood. The red liquid was so cleverly engineered, it could pass off as actual blood. The old Sansa would have been petrified by the macabre scenery, but after her prolonged exposure to cruel in-laws and gruesome murders, she did not even flinch.

"All men must die," Shae said, suddenly appearing out of nowhere. "It's Valyrian, a language invented by linguist David J. Peterson."

The two greeted her in unison. "I thought you were making a general statement," Sansa remarked.

Judging by her facial expression, the assassin clearly was not expecting Sansa to be there. She glanced inquiringly at Myranda, who simply shrugged her shoulders in response. "Okay. What shall we ride first?" she asked impatiently.

Sansa rotated on the balls of her feet and pointed at a tall, ancient-looking brick tower. "What about that one?"

It was a thrilling, death-defying experience. They were suspended by a bungee cord and dropped from the thousand-foot high tower through an ornate portal on the floor. Awaiting them at the bottom were black steel stakes, intended to puncture the soft flesh of their bodies. The horrendous things never came into contact with their skin; mere inches away from impalement, the cords were retracted, sending them back to the tower.

Myranda was screaming at the top of her lungs throughout the entire drop. She admitted that she was so terrified that she nearly urinated in her pants. Despite the symptoms of hangover, Sansa enjoyed being in free fall. She felt unburdened of the weight that she had been carrying the entire time. The Moon Door evoked no reaction from Shae. She remained as still as a corpse.

They proceeded to the Maidenpool. Each one of them was enclosed in an iron cabinet with a spike-covered interior, a torture device commonly known as the Iron Maiden. There were sufficiently large peepholes on the anterior part of the cabinet, enabling them to catch a glimpse of the outside. Peering through the gap, Sansa could see a river of blood littered with skeletons, cutting through dark plains which were decorated with ramshackle cabins, wilted vegetation, and decaying bodies. “Very realistic,” she commented. The current grew more turbulent, causing her vessel to capsize, and the "blood" to gush in. The iron cabinet ricocheted off rocks and bones like a billiard ball bouncing around a pool table. She was sucked into a whirlpool before finally tumbling down into an enormous golden urn overflowing with the same red liquid.

Having tried over twenty different rides, they decided to grab a bite to eat. There was a plethora of food available in the different concession stands. Shae bought a turkey sandwich and a Bloody Mary. Sansa opted for a coconut-glazed croissant-doughnut and a dark mocha frappé. Biting into her crepe, Myranda delivered a sermon on how she should refrain from ingesting caffeine. "Relax. It's decaf," Sansa joked.

In the table across theirs, a man was gently chiding his female companion for her posture. The man had long, tousled silver-blonde hair which hung over his shoulders and framed his pale, gaunt visage. He was strikingly attractive for someone who had such a wrathful face. His purple eyes were filled with contempt, the look of someone immensely hungry for vengeance. He was sporting a bronze crocodile-skin trench coat, and black skinny jeans and leather lace up boots. The equally gorgeous woman was wearing a peach chiffon gown, which had a sleeveless diamond-studded bodice and a flowing full-length skirt. Her platinum locks cascaded down her bare back like melted pyrite. She was as elegant as a goddess. "I need you to be perfect today. Can you do that for me? You don't want to wake the dragon, do you?" the man said as the back of his fingers grazed her cheeks.

Sansa could not discern what their relationship was. The identical eye and hair color immediately spelled siblings, but his caresses suggested that they were lovers. The woman was unresponsive, staring at him with tranquil eyes. "Dragon? Was that a figure of speech?" she whispered. They appeared to be important people, based on their sophisticated manner of dressing. She wondered if her spy friends knew them.

The women looked at her curiously, as though she had said something bizarre. Myranda sniggered. "Do you live under a rock? How could you not know who they are?" Sansa averted her eyes and focused on consuming her blueberry creme parfait. From beneath her drooping lashes, she noticed Shae's lips turn up slightly. "Waking the dragon means rousing one's anger. In relation to that, dragon was a name earned by a particular influential family that had a knack for burning down people, literally." She shoved a spoonful of the frozen dessert into her mouth before continuing. "Silver hair and purple eyes could only mean one thing," she muttered under her breath, "Targaryens."

Sansa almost dropped her spoon. She felt a horrible sensation in the pits of her stomach. Sitting before her were the monsters that cruelly robbed her of a grandfather, an uncle, and an aunt. Burning down...could it be? she mused. She completely lost her grip on the piece of silverware.

"Are you okay? Do they scare you?" Shae asked, worry apparent on her face. She clutched Sansa's trembling hands. The younger woman shook her head, eyes fixated on the silver-headed siblings.

The man glowered at her suspiciously. "What are you peasants looking at?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just that you're so handsome," Myranda interjected flirtatiously, batting her eyelashes and twirling a few strands of her brown hair around her index finger. "May we know your name?"

Flipping his hair, he gave a boastful shrug. "Ignorant fools. You dare come here without knowing who I am? I own this place! I am Viserys Targaryen," he declared proudly. "You are very fortunate. Go ahead, feast your eyes on me, lowlifes. I doubt you'll ever witness something as magnificent as me." As if on cue, the woman rose from her seat. His tone softened. "Oh, and this is my lovely sister, Daenerys. You must be very pleased to meet us."

Sansa was itching to drive her spoon through Viserys' smug, pompous face. "We are." She forced the sweetest, most seductive smirk she could muster. "My name is Alayne. These are my BFFs, Myranda and Shae." Dumbfounded by her recently donned mask, the brunettes just smiled and waved like pageant contestants.

Viserys' eyes lingered on Shae. He licked his lips and said, "Well, Alayne, I might have mistaken you for a dumb blonde." He leaned on their table and slipped a calling card under Shae's hand.

"Have you been on the Dracarys?" asked Daenerys, with a warm, genuine smile plastered on her face.


	9. Rightfully Mine

"Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system."

Expecting to find a sick Sansa snugly tucked up in bed, he was greatly disappointed by the empty bedroom. He unhurriedly approached the bed, which was tidy and neatly-made. He bent down and unlaced his shoes before resting on the white mattress. _How intoxicating_ , he mused, inhaling her scent. He lay on his left side and imagined her tresses in his hands. She was lying there too, facing him. He noticed a single copper strand on the bedspread. It was short, wavy, and slightly thicker than what he remembers of her. Grinning mischievously, he picked it up and rolled it until it got tangled in knots.

He sensed a sudden stiffness in his groin. "Shit," he said aloud. Quickly unbuttoning and unzipping his pants, he finally freed his erect penis. He pressed down on the top of his scrotum. Maintaining the pressure on his testicle sac, he formed a ring with his thumb and his index finger, and slid it up and down his shaft in a slow, relaxed rhythm. He now used both hands, gaining speed. Flipping into a prone position, he parted his legs and started grinding the underside of his cock against his palm. He was making swift, sharp thrusts, picturing her bare buttocks in front of him as he took her from behind. He could hear her screaming his name, begging him to stop, and later on, pressing him to continue. With a few more ugly jerks, he ejaculated, dirtying the sheets with his lewd white juices. He opened the drawers of her nightstand and found a box of Kleenex. Having tidied himself, he spoke into the intercom. "Bring some clean sheets to Alayne's room at once."

\---------------------------------------------------------------  
Dracarys was definitely something Sansa would never forget. Unlike most roller coasters, wherein the upper body is supported by a harness, only the region below the waist was fastened to the ride. Around their ankles and thighs were shackles, binding them to the roller coaster train, which was sent jetting through steep climbs, sudden descents, and terrifying loops. Her torso was flung violently as though it had no bones. It felt like riding on a dragon’s back.

Viserys had a limousine pick them up. A valet welcomed them at the massive rusty gates of Targaryen Manor, where a soiree was thrown to celebrate the opening of Valar Morghulis. Representatives from the influential families comprising Westeros were in attendance. The charming Lannister figurehead was intimidating as ever, sporting a white million-dollar suit. Joffrey’s uncle Renly looked sleek and sharp in black. He was chatting with Loras Tyrell who decided to go with a tan suit. Dorne’s Vice President for Marketing, Oberyn Martell, busied himself with drinking and making out with his olive-skinned wife.

Sansa was relieved that nobody recognized her. Thank God for dye, she rejoiced. Shae, Myranda, and she were quietly lounging in a couch located in a dark corner of the room when she saw Petyr in the crowd. “Hey, our boss is here,” she whispered to Myranda and Shae. They simply waved it off, reassuring her that they will not be discovered if they remain hidden in the pool area. “I’m sure he didn’t come here to take a splash,” Myranda said.

"Hello, ladies. Why are you all covered up? Put on your swimsuits and let's party." Viserys had already changed into blue to green gradient boardshorts. His lean physique combined with his pale complexion and androgynous features gave him a fragile appearance, in stark contrast to the formidable aura that he had during their first meeting. 

The backyard of the Targaryen mansion boasted an Olympic-size lagoon pool with a lemniscate-shaped fire pit in the middle, and a luxurious pavilion embellished with dragon gargoyles. There were a few familiar faces, some of which were people whom she knew were or used to be under her father's employ. Others, she had seen once or twice in the office or on television. She spotted Jeyne Poole who was in a polka dot bathing suit. She was sharing a milkshake with a blonde teenager whom Sansa has never seen before. _Yuck._ She shivered in disgust as she watched her former friend swap saliva with the guy. Observing the gargoyles were the Reed siblings. Jojen was Bran's best friend, while Meera was his crush.

"Don't you want to swim?" Daenerys asked, dragging her away from her thoughts. "Your friends have already dived in."

"Oh, hey, Daenerys. Maybe later. I'd like to sit down for now," she answered distractedly. Relaxing was a luxury she could not afford, especially now that she has yet to devise a plan to exact revenge on the Targaryens.

“Let’s go together later, then,” Daenerys said. “In the meantime, why don’t we tell stories? Maybe get to know each other? By the way, you can address me using my nickname, if you want.”

Sansa would not have it any other way. Socializing had never been a talent of hers, but befriending Daenerys and winning her trust was proving to be an easy task. The woman was naïve and desperate for friendship, unsuspecting of the opportunity that presented itself before her. “Okay, Dany.”

Daenerys was overjoyed. She finally got the chance to be around a woman her age, and not the ambitious, money-driven, profit-oriented stockholders whom she was forced to interact with for the sake of the Dragonstone, or at least, whatever remained of it.

Sansa invented a story about her childhood. The only daughter of Leonard Stone, Ph.D., an American psychiatrist, and Keira Donovan, an accountant in Manchester, Alayne Stone spent the first decade of her life in Gramercy, New York. When her father passed, she was thirteen. She and her mother moved to the UK a week after his funeral. She had to leave her friends, abandon the chance to enter NYU, and forget about her clubbing lifestyle. She immediately adapted to her new life in Manchester, where she met Shae and Myranda. She has been living there for four years already.

“I’m sorry about your father, Alayne,” Daenerys said softly, tears threatening to fall from her lilac eyes. “I lost mine at almost the same age as you did.”

Even if everything was just an act, her tears and grief were genuine. “It’s been years, and yet…Oh, Dany, I’m sorry for being so weak.”

Daenerys was a mess, as well. She shook her head and took Sansa’s face into her hands. “Acceptance doesn’t come easily. It takes time.” She proceeded to her own tale. Daenerys was a product of incest, just like her brother. The Targaryens believed that bloodlines had to be pure, which is why the trademark silver blonde hair and purple eyes were preserved after so many generations.

Westeros had always been run by the Targaryens. Her father, Aerys II Targaryen, was offered a merger by Tywin Lannister, owner and CEO of Castamere, through the marriage of her brother Rhaegar to Lorelei Lannister. Seeing it as an opportunity to further expand the company, and to fill the void left by his son's wife Elia, he agreed to the union. "Hitting two birds with one stone," he said. Everything went well, until Lyanna Stark came into the picture. The beautiful dark-haired, grey-eyed young woman with a headstrong and courageous personality stole Rhaegar's heart in an instant. He started setting the Lannister woman aside; they were still married, yes, but only on paper. Her brother's attraction turned into infatuation, and eventually became an unhealthy obsession. He abducted Lyanna, and killed the woman's father and brother.

This stirred chaos in Westeros. Out of grief and anger for the death of his intended, Robert Baratheon, head of Landing, conspired with the Lannisters and the Starks to take over the corporation. Having been informed about the conspiracy, her father demanded a meeting with the heads of the three companies, where he planned to murder Tywin Lannister, whom he believed was the mastermind. Unfortunately for him, Jaime Lannister came to Tywin's rescue, completely turning the tables. He was backstabbed, literally and figuratively. Robert was discontented. He sought vengeance and he got it. He was drinking his sorrows away in a pub when Rhaegar found him and challenged him to a brawl. Despite Robert's drunken stupor, he managed to fight well and take the sober man's life. Everyone that the Targaryens had trusted betrayed and took everything from them. Daenerys and her brother now live as beggars, relying on the generosity of Illyrio Mopatis.

“Viserys wants me to marry an oil sheikh,” she sobbed, “He said it’s necessary for taking back what’s ours. I have to do it.”

Regardless of how much hatred she held for the Targaryens, she could not rid herself of the sympathy that she had for the girl. She resembled her in so many ways. Embracing the girl, she consoled her. “Why don’t I get us some drinks? I could really use one right now.” Daenerys nodded while she wiped her tears.

Ensuring that she was out of sight, she sneaked into the party venue and ran for the kitchen. Her movements were halted when her face slammed into a man’s hard, taut chest. “Better watch where you’re going, miss,” he said.

She stared at him in disbelief. “Jaime Lannister?”


	10. Sight

“I’m sorry. I don’t think we’ve met.” The man has obviously had a few. He blinked his bloodshot eyes and combed his disheveled hair.

Sansa couldn’t help but ogle at his tight abs and toned obliques. Jaime was gorgeous, even if he was dressed in just a maroon speedo. Or maybe it was because it’s all that he had on. Noticing the impatience in his face, she smiled coquettishly. “Only a fool would fail to recognize Kingsguard's _Golden Lion_. You're one of the best centre forwards in association football history.”

Jaime laughed uproariously. “I’m not particularly fond of that title. Seeing no need to introduce myself, would you be so kind as to give me your name?”

“My name is Alayne Stone. I was personally invited by Viserys when he met me and my friends at Valar Morghulis.”

His eyes darted from her now blonde hair to her blue eyes. He turned his attention to her breasts, which were clad in a cute grey bikini top. He drank in her slim waist and shapely hips. When she realized that he was looking at the v-shaped area where her smooth thighs met, Sansa felt the heat rising to her cheeks. He returned his emerald irises to her face and met her azure ones. “I don’t see any reason for him not to. You’re very beautiful, Alayne. You remind me of my sister, Cersei.”

While she hated the idea of being compared to that monster of a mother-in-law, she thanked him for the compliment. “You flatter me, sir.”

“The matter has been handled,” said a familiar voice. She turned her head and saw Petyr shaking hands with Tywin Lannister. _Fuck. He’s headed this way._

Panicking, she pushed Jaime to the wall and smacked his lips with her own. It was sudden and violent. He stared at her agape, taking a few moments to make sense of what just happened, and kissed her back. His tongue traced her tender lips, begging for entry; she let him in.

“Jaime Lannister,” Petyr greeted, “Perhaps this is a bad time. Your father demands you make your presence known.” He continued walking towards the kitchen.

Sansa broke free, leaving a bridge of saliva dangling between their mouths. She quickly wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I really…shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. I hear your father is looking for you.”

Jaime was grinning from ear to ear. “Screw my father.” In the blink of an eye, their lips locked once again. The kiss was more passionate, more demanding this time. His tongue drew small circles on top hers. She mirrored his movements. Her mouth grew sore, but she didn’t mind. Never in her life has she tasted something like this. Not even her previous boyfriends, certainly not Joffrey, can make her feel such an amount of pleasure and pain. “You’re an excellent kisser,” she said as he drew himself away from her.

“You’re not so bad,” he replied.

Sansa suddenly remembered that she left Daenerys alone by the pool. “Jaime, I enjoyed this, really. But I have to get back to my friend. I promised to bring her drinks.”

“I’ll go with. These hypocrites bore me.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The speedometer read 120 mph. They were going beyond the speed limit, but the chauffeur could not do anything. For the past ten minutes, Cersei Lannister has been shouting “Step on it!” from the back of the limousine.

“Can’t this thing go any faster?” Cersei hissed.

“I’m afraid not, ma’am. Might I remind you that we are over—”

“I don’t care! Just get me there,” she snapped.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She was discussing business with the Targaryens when she received a call. One of her informants has reportedly seen Sansa in St. Bartholomew Hospital three days ago. She hurriedly excused herself from the party, much to her brother’s disappointment. She didn't concern herself with his feelings at the moment. She was very desperate to incarcerate Sansa for murdering Joffrey.

She nearly stumbled on the pavement because the car has not come to a full stop when she jumped off. “Wait for me here,” she told the man behind the wheel. She straightened herself up and got on the elevator.

“I’m sorry, Miss Cersei,” the woman at the counter said. “Miss Stark has been discharged last Tuesday.”

Cersei’s patience was growing thin. Gritting her teeth, she asked who Sansa was with and where they went.

“I’m afraid I cannot disclose that information. It’s confidential, you see. You can try asking the social worker who brought her here, but I can’t assure you that she’ll give you what you want.”

Cersei stormed out of the building. “Pycelle, we’re going to Kensington.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Daenerys’ glum face lit up when she saw Sansa approaching her. “I was worried you wouldn’t come back,” she confessed.

Sansa handed her the chocolate margarita that she had been waiting for while uttering her apologies. Recalling the encounter between her and Jaime, she took a sip of her own drink and blushed.

“Alayne, who might this gentleman be?” Daenerys ask, pointing a finger at the man standing behind Sansa.

“How rude of me. I’m Jaime Lannister.” He flashed another one of those trademark grins of his.

Another Lannister, she thought. Daenerys’ expression grew dark for a split second, before reverting to her usual nonchalant one. “I see. Are you and Alayne ,” she put down her drink, “together?”

Sansa and Jaime looked at each other expectantly for a moment. “I honestly don’t know,” they unintentionally answered in unison. Without warning, Jaime jumped into the pool. “Catch me if you can, Alayne,” he shouted, before completely disappearing into the water.

Sansa noted the worry on Daenerys’ face, and she knew exactly why. Just like her, the Lannisters have wronged her family. She must also be itching to kill the charming blonde-haired man. “Dany, don’t worry,” she crooned, “Jaime will never hurt me.” _I’ll get rid of him before he can even try._

Daenerys was still unconvinced. She consumed her cocktail in one gulp. “Why don’t we just swim?”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ros struggled to breathe with the pressure exerted on her throat. A minute ago, she was sitting peacefully at her desk, planning the next outreach programs when a group of men barged in and interrogated her about Sansa Stark.

Petyr Baelish had already threatened her in the past. “Tell no one of this, unless of course you wish to find yourself in a metal box at the bottom of the English Channel,” he said. She was aware of the fact that Sansa was being accused of her fiancee’s murder, and that the Lannisters were hunting her down. She pitied and liked the child; she had no intention of handing her over to these monsters. “She’s just an innocent girl who got caught up in all of this. She most certainly _did not_ kill that Baratheon Boy,” she said defiantly.

Cersei furrowed her eyebrows and gave her a cruel smile. “Spare me your lies, dear. Sansa Stark _did_ kill my son. Have you no concern for your own life? What can you possibly hope to achieve from protecting that murderer?”

The social worker met her with empty eyes. “I am to die, either way. I think it would be better to go for the right cause.” And with those last words, she snatched Cersei’s pistol and aimed it at her. The action was so fast that they barely noticed Ros shooting herself in the temple.

Cersei stood in horror as she watched the vision in her left eye fade.


	11. Accusation

The water was like smooth silk against her skin. It was very different from the chlorinated pools of the resorts that she has gone to. She closed her eyes and floated on her back, drifting freely across the water. She suddenly felt heavy hands on her shoulders, dragging her forcefully to the bottom.

“Did I scare you?” Jaime said as he pushed her back to the surface.

Sansa caught her breath. Her previous experiences have made her paranoid about everything. Even the slightest, most innocent movements, can be perceived as an attempt on her life. “A bit,” she replied. She curled her lips and splashed a wave of water at his face. He returned her attack and chased her around the pool. The game finally ended when he grabbed her by the waist and wrapped his muscular arms around her. She squeezed his firm biceps while he planted soft kisses on her nape. “Why don’t we go somewhere private?” he whispered in her ear. 

Sansa heard someone shouting her name. She looked for the source of the sound and saw Shae and Myranda smoking on the edges of the fire pit. They raised their glasses and motioned her to come closer. “Come. I’ll introduce you to my girlfriends.” She broke free from his embrace and took him by the hand.

“How’d you capture the famous _Golden Lion_?” Myranda said.

“I bumped into him when I was getting some drinks for Dany and myself.” She released Jaime’s hand and sat between the two girls. They offered him a cigar, which he declined. “Excuse me, ladies. I’ll be borrowing her for a while,” he said, giving them a salute and whisking Sansa away.

Like a dolphin, Daenerys gracefully emerged from the water. “Aren’t you worried about Alayne? No, I mean, I trust her. It’s just that Lannister character. He might take advantage of her,” she said, barely above a whisper. She climbed onto the fire pit and thanked them for the light beer.

_Nice work, Sansa._ Shae laughed off Daenerys’ concern. “I’m sure Alayne can manage. Nothing has happened to her, so far.”

Daenerys was enjoying their company. Myranda regaled her with the raunchy tales and sexual escapades, while Shae shared her stories of breaking men’s hearts. She said her piece, as well, which earned her warm embraces and comforting words.

“Daenerys! Daenerys, come here.”

She had enough of her brother’s exceedingly irritating dictatorial attitude. _Why does he always have to take my happiness away?_ She apologized to the two and grudgingly went to her brother.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

“Are you sure about this?”

Sansa reflected on the matter. Her original purpose in accepting Viserys’ invitation was to eliminate the remaining Targaryens. Jaime Lannister was icing on the cake. She had certainly intended to get rid of him tonight. Should she really give him her maidenhead? _Oh what the heck._

With an innocent smile on her face, she slowly untied the strings that were supporting her bikini top. She was still feeling embarrassed when he feasted his eyes on her milky breasts. Expecting him to fondle them, she instinctively crossed her arms over her thorax. Instead, his arms were around her waist. 

His lips over hers, he pushed her onto the bed. Kicking off his only piece of clothing, he knelt on the bed, his knees planted on either side of her thighs. He started trailing wet kisses down her neck. She inhaled sharply when she felt his teeth sink into her.

“I couldn’t resist, sorry,” he laughed. He was cupping her breasts now. It was not violent, unlike Joffrey’s touch. The way that Jaime was handling her was very delicate; even that bite was a mere tickle compared to what his nephew’s fangs can do. Their tongues resumed their dance while he slipped his hand into her bikini. Using his index and middle fingers, he played with her clitoris. He could feel her pubic hair grazing his skin.

She was almost convulsing. Like Petyr, he was just teasing her, stimulating her, only to leave her unsatisfied and hungry in the end. She did not want another cliffhanger. Quick as lightning, her hands flew to his slightly stiff penis. “My turn.”

Jaime’s green eyes widened in surprise. “Woah there,” he said before completely falling silent as she stroked his shaft. Inexperienced, she awkwardly licked the glans like a child would a lollipop. She wasn’t completely ignorant, but she wasn’t sure if her execution was correct. He moaned loudly when her mouth engulfed his testicles. Gaining confidence from his guttural sounds of approval, she continued sucking. _I can be cruel, too._ A few moments away from ejaculation, she slid his cock out of her mouth, stuck out her tongue and let herself fall on the bed.

Disappointed, he sighed and wrapped his fingers around his cock. He had his release after several jerks. He relieved her of her thong using his teeth and positioned himself at her entrance. “Ready?”

Anticipating pain, she closed her eyes and braced herself. Her eyelids snapped open and her back arched as he entered her. She heard him groan at her tightness. “Wait, you’re a virgin?”

She nodded as he kissed the teardrops on her face. Seeking relief, she grabbed onto his pelvis, yanking his cock out of her, to no avail. _It’s not fully in_ , she realized. _Well, that sucks. He hasn’t even penetrated my hymen._

The walls of her vulva tightened even further, making withdrawal quite a chore. “Let go, Alayne,” Jaime joked. _Damn you. It’s not me. Talk to my cunt._ Many painful pulls and pushes later, he successfully eased his cock out of her.

“There’s too much friction,” he murmured. For a moment, he imagined Cersei and her emerald eyes. Stroking Sansa’s blonde hair, he sucked on her nipple while he doused spermicidal lubricant all over his cock. _Cersei’s wasn’t this tight,_ he thought with a stupid expression on his face, _but it still felt great._ Ever since that night in SoHo, Cersei’s hole has always been elastic as rubber. They’ve done it once or twice in the boardroom of Westeros; Cersei was hysterical. “Jaime, we can’t. We shouldn’t. Robert can come bursting through those doors any minute now,” he remembered her saying. He absentmindedly whispered her name.

Sansa’s ear caught this. _Does he fuck his sister?_ She had always wondered why none Robert Baratheon’s children had black hair. Maybe it was a recessive trait. Or maybe they weren’t his after all. Her mind wandered to the Targaryens. _Okay, ew._ It was a disturbing thought, indeed, but if it were true…

Jaime was gazing upon her face, his eyes dark with desire. “Prepare to be deflowered, Alayne,” he said. His fingers suddenly coiled around her neck, like that belt that nearly strangled her to death. “Or should I say _Sansa_?”

“What are you talking about?” she asked as she gasped for air. She desperately tried to remove his hand from her neck, but he was too strong. _He’s a bloody athlete! If it were just Joffrey, I still stood a chance._ Jaime was a man, and a very fit one at that. “You’re hurting me, Jaime. Please stop.”

“Cut the crap already.” His free hand plucked one of her pubic hairs and dangled it in front of her. “Lovely auburn curls. You don’t usually come across these in blondes.”

She felt the tingling in the spot where the strand once was. “That really hurt,” she complained, attempting to take her mind off the fact that he was constricting her. “Crestfallen? I'm afraid things can't be identical to Cersei's.”

“Did you really do it? Did you, Sansa?” His words were drenched in icy disdain.

“Do what? I’ve done a lot of things.”

“You know what I’m talking about. Did you kill Joffrey?”

“I-I don’t know,” she stuttered. “Everything happened so fast, I..I don’t remember what happened.” _Yes, a false tear would do nicely._

Jaime narrowed his eyes, paying no attention to her feigned ignorance. “Have you any idea what losing Joffrey has done to Cersei? The agony she’s going through?” He squeezed her neck tighter. “She’s in so much pain, she’s grown numb to everything. She’s been ignoring me, blaming me even. ‘You weren’t there for him’, she said, ‘he was our son and you weren’t there!’ She hadn’t looked at me since then.” His eyes glistened as tears welled up in his eyes.

_So he was fucking his sister. That’s some bastard factory._ Despite the choking sensation that she was experiencing, she managed to smirk. “Are you going to kill me to avenge your _son_? Or was it nephew? Tell me, is there a term for someone who is both your son and nephew?” she taunted.

“No,” he answered with a voice that possessed the same steel as his father’s. “I want justice. I’ll let the court decide your inno-”

He collapsed on top of her, pounds of muscle and bone crushing her own small frame. Veins bulged and became more prominent on his now pallid face. “What the fuck?” were the last words that escaped his lips before he ceased breathing. Still perplexed, she flipped him over with great difficulty and saw Shae at the door. “Sansa, are you hurt?” She couldn’t resist the impulse to hug the woman. “I can’t thank you enough. You saved me, Shae.”

Myranda entered the room and covered her in a robe. “I see you’re no longer a virgin,” she teased. Sansa blushed at this. “We..Jaime didn’t break it yet.” Her companions gave her suspicious looks and laughed. “Come. We have to dispose this body,” the assassin said with a tone of urgency.

With Myranda holding him by the legs, and Shae by the armpits, they carried Jaime’s corpse to the bathroom, where they made a frightening discovery. Aghast, the three nearly dropped the body.

In the bathtub lay a naked Viserys, with his eyes and mouth wide open. Shae warned them not to touch him. “He’s been electrocuted,” she said, pointing at the broken lamp floating in the tub. They moved to the shower area. Alternating red and black squares covered the walls and the floors. _This is as large as my dressing room_ , Sansa realized. _Thirty people can take a bath simultaneously without a problem._

They started cleaning the body, removing any fingerprints or hairs. Myranda leered at the eight-inch cylindrical piece of meat that hung between his legs. “He’s well-endowed. It must have hurt.” She gave her a sly wink.

The three were about to dump Jaime beside Viserys when they noticed someone slumped against the back of the tub. “Oh my god, Dany,” Sansa gaped at the young woman. Her silver-blonde locks were tangled and messy. There were a few bruises on her face and blood streaming from her lower lip. Myranda checked for a pulse; Daenerys was still alive. She suffered from a mild electrocution.

“Will we get rid of her, too?” Shae asked, needle and knife ready in each hand. Sansa was confused. Her eyes darted from the weapons to Daenerys. _Isn’t this what you wanted?_ she told herself. She shook her head and swallowed.

“Sansa?” Shae and Myranda were waiting for her answer.

“No. Death is too final,” she replied. “Too kind.” In truth, she could not kill Daenerys, and she did not want someone else to dirty their hands for her. “She’ll rot in jail,” she glanced at the bathtub, “for murdering Viserys Targaryen and Jaime Lannister.”


	12. Of Baths and Tubs

Blood soaked the gauze over her eye socket. She had been weeping since she learned of Jaime’s death. Initially, she denied it. She thought that she heard it wrong, that they were talking about someone else. Ripping off the bandage, she scornfully recalled how that social worker grimaced while she robbed her of her left eye. _Maybe if I stayed, I’d still have normal vision, and more importantly, Jaime. He probably wouldn’t have entertained that Targaryen whore._ She started shifting the blame from herself to Daenerys Targaryen, and then to Sansa Stark.

She stepped into the bathroom and washed her face. “That little Stark bitch!” she scowled at her reflection. She hated the hideous and pathetic state that she was in as much as she did Sansa. Her makeup was smudged like paint on a clown’s face. There were dark circles under her sagging eye bags. And worst of all, she was now a Cyclops. “Jaime would still think this is beautiful,” she said with a rueful smile. She immersed herself in the lukewarm water. The rose petals were drops of blood to her. She shrieked and jumped out of the bathtub, fearing that Jaime’s beautiful corpse would be floating before her. _It would be terrifying,_ she thought, _but I’d love that anyway._ She turned on the shower and closed her eyes, letting the water droplets join the streams from her eyes.

“You’ll be my bride when we grow up. We’ll be Romeo and Juliet.” Both were six years old then, young and naïve, unaware of the unwritten prohibition on their kind of love. Cersei would cover her face with a blanket as if it were a veil. Jaime would watch her from the end of the room, standing and smiling handsomely like it were really his wedding day. She bit her lip and guffawed at the memory of those plastic rings that they would slip into each other’s fingers.

The twins had shared a bedroom from the day they were born, Cersei’s half painted pink, and Jaime’s blue. Eventually, they were forbidden from bathing together. When they were ten, their father had them occupy separate rooms, but that didn’t stop them. Every night, Jaime knocked on her bedroom window and climb into her room. They would sip hot chocolate and cuddle in her bed, which was more than enough space for them. They had to be very cautious, of course. Their baby brother, Tyrion, usually pounded his tiny fists on Jaime’s door, looking for a playmate. To avoid rousing suspicion, Jaime would have to leave her and return to his room.

There never was a place in her heart for Tyrion. She had always blamed him for their mother’s death. She loathed him as soon as he came out of Joanna Lannister’s birth canal. His hair was as blonde as any Lannister’s, but his face…oh it was monstrous. His head seems to have been smashed-in, with a swollen, protruding forehead. His deafening cries echoing throughout the room, he stared at her with mismatched eyes: one green, and the other black. “That is not mine!” Tywin Lannister declared, his gold-flecked pale green eyes burning with fury. Not paying the infant one more glance, he left and slammed the door behind him.

Seemingly compensating for the Cersei’s contempt, Jaime loved, guided, and protected Tyrion, like any older brother would. He even got a few scrapes and bruises from fighting the people who bullied his little brother. It made her jealous, Tyrion competing with her for Jaime’s affection. She later convinced herself that his concern for Tyrion was all out of pity. _Jaime couldn’t possibly love that thing. He’s the monster that killed Mom._

She shook her head vigorously and erased her imp brother from her thoughts. Folding her arms over her chest, she reminisced about that torrid night in SoHo. It was Kevan Lannister and Dorna Swyft’s wedding anniversary— a tedious affair, which demanded all their pleasantries and courtesies. Using Tyrion as a distraction, she and Jaime finally escaped the nagging relatives and hypocritical socialites. They hid in Jaime’s Dodge Viper. Resting on the reclined driver’s seat, they started making out. Groping and feverish tongues escalated to sexual intercourse. It was embarrassingly awkward, since both of them were entering unchartered territory. “It won’t fit, Jaime,” she remembered herself complaining. His entry was excruciatingly painful, not just for her, but for him as well.

Picturing Jaime, she cupped her breasts and flicked her hardened nipples with her index fingers. The soapsuds were flowing down her abdomen to her navel. Still fondling a breast with one hand, she slid two fingers into her slit. “Oh, Jaime,” she moaned while imagining him inside her. As she achieved an orgasm, tears flooded her face once more.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Insomnia. She lied motionless on the mattress, staring at the white ceiling of her room. No. Blonde locks would plague her dreams, making sleep torture instead of relaxation. _Joffrey, Cersei, Jaime, Viserys, and Daenerys._ The golden color of their hair was hers as well. “Damn these incestuous siblings,” she grumbled as she played with her tresses. Shae had shown her a video featuring the Lannister twins in heat inside of the Westeros boardroom. Sansa shuddered in disgust. She had always assumed that the black hair was a recessive trait. _That explains Joffrey._ She wondered if Myrcella and Tommen were insane like their older brother.

“Now what would Cersei Baratheon be doing here?” Petyr was still wearing the clothes that she had seen him in last night, his hair in disarray. _He looks much better when his hair was not_ so _neat_ , she thought unconsciously. 

Reflexively, she stood and grabbed the object nearest to her. Petyr momentarily gaped at her nakedness but said nothing. It took her several minutes to grasp the situation. “Haven’t you heard of knocking?” she said, feeling slightly embarrassed and aroused by the fact that he had seen all of her. She rolled over and wrapped herself in sheets. “You look like shit. What happened to you?”

“You ought to close your bedroom door. I was under the impression that you were _inviting_ someone.” He chuckled as he dodged the pillow that she threw at him. “I was brought in for questioning,” he said as he bent to pick up her pillow. “You can cross Jaime Lannister’s and Viserys Targaryen’s names off your list.”

“That’s good to know,” she replied unenthusiastically. Her guilt was consuming her. Her only consolation was that she did not have more blood in her hands. Or did she? _This is laughable_ , she told herself while stifling her mirth. _I let others do the dirty work while I maintain my ‘innocence’. I’m no different from Petyr._

“Witnesses claimed to have last seen Jaime Lannister with a beautiful woman. Blonde, I hear.” She had not noticed him sitting beside her until he stroked her golden mane.

“I didn’t kill him,” she retorted quickly. “I _was_ going to, but Shae finished him off before I could.”

“It was clever of you to pin the blame on Daenerys Targaryen,” he said, eliciting a coy smile from her. “Death is a kindness, I agree. I thought perhaps you were hesitating because she said she thinks of you as her friend.”

Repressing her frustration at his comment, she snorted derisively. “Don’t be ridiculous. A friend? My _friendship_ was a ruse to win her trust, which she was stupid enough to let me have.”

Grey-green eyes glinting with knowing, he donned his customary mocking smile. “Of course it was. Never mind that. You better clean yourself up. I heard you had a wild night with the _Golden Lion_.” He gave her a curt smile and made his way to the door.

He stopped dead in his tracks as he felt her breasts pressed against his back. “Don’t go. Please, don’t leave me, Petyr.”

The faintest of smiles played on his lips. He tried to disentangle himself from her grip, but her fingers dug deeper into his ribs. Dragging her behind him, he continued forward and locked the door. “There. I’m staying. What is it that you want, sweetling?”

Stunned by her own actions, she was unable to respond. Was she looking for sequel to last night’s episode? A continuation of her interrupted ‘sexcapade’? Sansa didn’t know herself. Somehow, she craved for his company, and maybe even more.

“This is inappropriate, Sansa. I’m your uncle,” he said coldly. Without turning around, he draped his shirt over her shoulders. “Kindly clothe yourself.”

She was resting on his bare back now. He wasn’t as well-built as Jaime Lannister, but he definitely wasn’t skinny. He had broad shoulders and that V-taper. A line ran from his neck to the waist of his slacks. She studied the muscles of his back, and for a moment, expected wings to sprout from under his scapulas. Beneath her hands, she could feel the hardness of his chest.

Still trapped in her embrace, he faced her and raised a brow in question. Without saying a word, he lifted her into a lover's carry. After lowering her into the bathtub, he massaged her scalp until the red dominated over the gold. “You look most beautiful in this color.”

Goose bumps pimpled her skin. Blushing, she dragged her knees closer to her chest and muttered her thanks. Using the showerhead, he rinsed the last of the shampoo. He gently wrung her hair and rose to leave. She was pulling him back again, this time by his suspenders. The straps bounced off his back like a cracking whip when she released them.

_He tastes of mint,_ she realized as his mouth claimed hers. Their tongues collided and arched and twisted like clashing swords in a battlefield. He clutched either side of her hips, bringing her sex dangerously close to his. Not wanting her arms to idly hang at her sides, she awkwardly grabbed at his dark hair and mussed it up even more, not that it needed mussing.

She didn’t remember falling into the tub. “I think you’re more than capable of bathing yourself,” he said and walked out of the room.


	13. The Date

_At this old hotel, but I can’t tell if I’ve been breathin’ or sleepin’ or screamin’ or waitin’ for the man to call and maybe all of the above. Cause mostly I’ve been sprawled on these cathedral steps while spitting out the blood and screaming “Someone save me!”_

She ground her teeth in frustration as the shot landed at five o’clock, an inch and a half from the bull’s eye. She fired again, hitting the same spot. Reloading her gun, she began screaming along with the song playing. “Cause I’ll give you all the nails you need. Cover me in gasoline. Wipe away the tears and blood again. And the punchline to the joke is asking ‘Someone save me!”

She had not seen Petyr since that kiss in her bathroom, and it was making her restless. Checking her inbox, she frowned. _Not even a message._ She set her phone aside and picked up her pistol. She put more holes in the target, distances from the bull’s eye ranging from one to three inches. When she emptied the magazine, the track changed.

_Well, when you go, don’t ever think I’ll make you try to stay. And maybe when you get back I’ll be off to find another way._

His grey-green eyes filled her mind. She coiled her fingers into a fist and tried to push away her thoughts of him. As much as she hated to admit, she did miss him.

“Excellent work, Sansa. You’re a natural.” Harry grinned and gave her a pat on the back. She had completely forgotten that she wasn’t alone. She regarded him with a listless smile. _Here it comes_ , she thought.

It has become his habit to ask her out after firearm practice. She had already refused him thrice, using Shae or Myranda as an excuse. Aside from the risk of exposing herself and her lack of interest in him, she just wanted to hide under her blanket, put on her headphones and shut out the entire world. _Maybe it won’t be so bad to give it a try,_ she found herself thinking. _Maybe Harry can fill the void…_

“So what do you say? Just a simple snack together?” The usual confidence in his deep blue eyes vanished; he was pleading. Much to her surprise, he was on his knees. Taking his hands into hers, she helped him up. “Give me a few minutes to dress,” she said.

“Your garb really brings out the color of your eyes,” Harry gestured at her dress. “This is the first time I’ve seen you in blue.” Sansa was not paying him attention, absentmindedly shoving a spoonful of sundae into her mouth. Noticing the expectant look on his face, she nodded curtly and forced a smile. _God, this is so boring. What the…_

Lightly tapping his hand, she whispered “Seven o’clock.” Harry slowly rotated to look in that direction. A hood drawn over his head, and sunglasses concealing his eyes, Sansa recognized the trimmed blonde whiskers covering his jaw. He was unmistakably Tywin Lannister. Opposite him was an older man, judging by his bald spotted head and wrinkled features, whom Sansa hasn’t met before. He let out a wheezing laugh, which sounded like a dying horse. Both had short coffee cups in front of them. Crumbs were scattered all over the older man’s plate; Tywin’s cake remained untouched.

“Who’s Walder Frey talking to?” Harry whispered. _Walder Frey._ The name seemed familiar to her, but she could not remember where she’d heard it. _Oh, of course. It's that grouchy old fart with so many wives not even half his age, and countless offspring that he can create his own army using just his cock._ When she revealed to him the identity of the hooded man, a surprised expression swept across his face. “Strange. Why would Tywin Lannister be hiding like that?” In response, she shrugged with a twist of her shoulders.

A fat brown envelope materialized from beneath Tywin’s sleeves. He slid it toward Walder Frey. “This exact? You better not be cheating me,” he coughed and studied the package. Sansa couldn’t tell if Tywin’s lips were turned up or frowning. The Lannister drank the last of his coffee and left Frey, who wore a satisfied smile.

Earlier, the sundae was just a cold tasteless concoction. Now, the sweet chocolate flavor tickled Sansa’s tastebuds. “Let’s observe Walder Frey,” she said in hushed tones. Harry opened his mouth to protest but shut it and watched Frey shift in his seat.

“Wait, dear. I have to powder my nose,” she said, slightly raising her pitch. Sansa winked at Harry and extended her leg, tripping the incoming waiter. The tray went flying, splattering dark hot liquid and pink ice cream over the old man. “You bloody idiot! Damned fool! Instead of eyeing some pretty dame, you best watch where you’re going,” she heard Walder Frey shout while she made her way to the restroom.

The poor waiter uttered his apologies while cleaning up the mess. Harry stood and offered to assist Walder Frey in his walking. “This joint could use more fellows like you,” the old man grunted and flashed him a nearly toothless grin. “The loo, boy, I need to take a piss.”

Peering into the cubicle, Sansa found Walder Frey crouched over the bowl, head almost dipped into the water. “The cameras?” she turned to Harry, who gave her a thumbs up.

“What business do you have with Tywin Lannister?” Harry asked, still grabbing him by the neck. Walder Frey cursed and struggled against his grip. “What’s it to you, boy?”

“Pull him out,” she commanded. The wizened pink weasel stared at her defiantly and spat; his saliva didn’t even come close to landing on her. “I should’ve accepted that electronic bullshit,” he grumbled.

She looked down on the man and jabbed him on the right cheek. “You may be an _old_ man,” she said, “but that’s not stopping me from making you _suffer_.” Her threat made Walder Frey swallow hard. If fear was a perfume, he’d stink of it. “I yield. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.

“Tywin Lannister was doing his end of the bargain. He just gave me my reward for destroying the Starks. ‘Get rid of them,’ he said, ‘and Winterfell will fall.’ True enough, company’s been declining over the weeks. Man kept his word, not like that boy Robb Stark.”

Sansa’s chest tightened at hearing Robb’s name. “Robb Stark? What does he have to do with any of this?” She managed to keep the tremor out of her voice.

“That Stark brat swore to marry one of my daughters in exchange for my help with investors and whatnot. He paused to cough, spewing blood onto the floor. Harry grimaced at the sight of the old man’s sputum. “Starks. Bah! Them and those oh so righteous Tullys been belittling the Frey name for far too long.

“Tywin Lannister _did not_ refuse my daughters. Heh, he’ll even wed two each of his nephews and nieces to four of my children. Now, that there’s a good deal! I destroy the bloody oathbreakers and dispose of some good-for-nothing children.” He laughed, and for a second, Sansa thought that he was going to die.

“So the Stark mansion was torched at your command?”

Walder Frey snorted. “Stupid girl. Were you listening? YES. I wish I barbecued those arrogant snobs myself…”

“Thank you for your honesty. Do you smoke, Mr. Frey?” she asked. Harry cuffed Walder Frey to the toilet, fumbled the old man’s pockets, tossed a lighter to her, and left the room. After two minutes, he returned with a can of kerosene, which he sprinkled over the old man.

“I’m afraid you missed one,” she said as she removed her black wig and played with it in her hands. Walder Frey gasped, eyes wide and white with fear and bewilderment. “Y-you..but—” he stammered and lifted his forefinger.

“Me, me, me,” she said in a singsong manner. She lit the trail of kerosene, stepped back, and curtsied. “Yes, I am Sansa Stark.”

Wig fixed atop her head, she and Harry climbed through the bathroom window and ran toward the black sedan that they used. As they entered the freeway, they immediately noticed two cars tailing them. A bullet broke the glass and bore a hole into the bottle of water planted in the cupholder. “Glove compartment,” he said. “Let’s put your skills to a test.” Sansa clutched the .45 and rolled her window down. Aiming was difficult, this being her first time with a moving target. Her first shot hit the passenger’s side view mirror, detaching it from the vehicle. She fired for a second time and shattered their enemy’s windshield, burying the bullet into the driver’s forehead. She nearly dropped her gun when the car turned sharply.

Then she saw it ripping through the air. She retreated and leaned against the cushion. “Fuck,” she cursed as blood oozed from her right shoulder. In the rearview mirror, she could see that both cars were still following them. Harry continued firing at the car on their right, one hand still on the wheel. Sticking her upper body outside the window, she blasted the front tires and sent one of the enemy cars spinning backward. Another shot, and the man who replaced the driver that she had just killed collapsed on the steering wheel.

Only one car was pursuing them now. Frey’s henchmen were transforming their sedan into Swiss cheese using a machinegun. “Just hold on a little longer. We’re almost there,” Harry shouted against the sound of bullets piercing metal. The tires squealed as Harry hit the brakes. He pulled Sansa’s hand and led her toward the building in front of them. Covering her ears with his hands, they watched the sedan burst into flames, catching their pursuers in the explosion. “Are you hurt, Sansa?” he asked her while they walked up the stairs. She showed him her shoulder and told him that it was just a graze. Hurt crossed his features. He ripped off a strip of cloth from his shirt, and wrapped her wound. “I’ll carry you. We’ll have that treated once we get there.”

“I’m surprised you know how to pilot a helicopter,” she said in amazement. She was enjoying the bird’s eye view of the city. Harry gazed into her eyes and smiled. Not his typical cocksure smirk, but a warm, sincere smile. “It’s quite simple, actually. Would you like me to teach you?”

She carefully landed the aircraft on the helipad of Petyr’s skyscraper. Harry alighted first and ran to her side to assist her. He carried her again and got on the elevator. Outside her bedroom, she gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Harry. This was a very _interesting_ first date. I had tons of fun.” For the first time, she saw him blush.

Her wound cleaned and dressed, she twisted and turned in her bed. Efforts to fall asleep proving futile, she decided to take a walk. When she got to the forty-fifth floor, she heard a sad, slow melody. It was coming from the rooftop, she realized. Climbing the stairs, the music grew louder and more melancholic.

A curtain of stars obscured the crescent's pale moonlight, illuminating the night sky much more beautifully than a full moon. The black polished wood gleamed like obsidian as she cautiously approached the grand piano.

"Perfect night, isn't it, sweetling?"


	14. Stab

Restraining herself from embracing him exhausted all of Sansa’s strength and willpower. She folded her arms, partly from the cool whistling breeze, but mostly to keep them from doing anything bizarre. “Who would’ve thought you were a pianist. When did you get back?” she asked.

He did not stop playing. “An hour ago,” he answered lazily. He motioned her to take a seat on the bench. She did as she was bid and watched the movement of his fingers, swinging her feet to the tune. Heat radiated from him like a furnace. Slowly, she leaned closer. She liked the warmth, his warmth. Her loins were lit aflame as his mustache bristled the back of her ear. “Have you missed me, sweetling?”

_Hit the nail on the head._ She shied away from him and shifted her attention to the starlit sky. “W-what makes you think that? I just…” She lowered her eyes. “Noticed your absence,” she lied.

His hands left the keys. “Shame,” he said with feigned disappointment. He put a finger under her chin and lifted her head. “I really did miss this.”

He pressed her lips on hers. She hungrily opened her mouth to welcome him. She missed it, too— his tender lips, the taste of mint in his breath, and the electrifying sensation that always accompanied the union of their mouths. She began clumsily fumbling for the buttons of his shirt. Growing impatient, she clawed at the fabric, ripping and tearing until it was in tatters. He grabbed her by her hindquarters and hoisted her onto the heavy piano lid. A devilish grin on his face, he slid the chemise off her inch by inch, much to her chagrin. By the time he broke the kiss, he was nude, and she was blushing and breathless. “You still redden from a kiss. How adorable,” he teased.

In response, she chewed his lower lip. “A good uncle shouldn’t be doing this to his niece. Weren’t you the one who said this was _inappropriate_?”

“I never said I was _good_ , now, did I?” he replied, smiling slyly.

An uncomfortable silence took over. He gazed upon her body with lust-filled eyes, as if he were seeing it for the first time. “Did you have your date in a firing range?” He softly touched the bandage on her shoulder. Sansa shared her most recent adventure, which seemed to amuse him very much. He proceeded to kissing her neck, where he found traces of Jaime’s fangs. He sucked at the bruised flesh and left an impression of his own. Soft moans escaped her lips as he nipped at the stiffened peaks of her breasts. His tongue descended to her sex and invaded her folds. All her inhibitions disappeared as he probed her dripping wet caverns. She shuddered, her body contorting and careening like she was undergoing an exorcism. He eventually parted with her lower lips, leaving her feeling miserably empty. She yanked his cock and kept a firm grip on it. “Petyr, please,” she whimpered.

His fingers glided rapidly over the alternating black and white rectangles, playing a glissando. “Yes?” he asked with a taunting smirk.

She squeezed his manhood. “Are you seriously going to make me beg?”

With one deep thrust, he drove his cock into her, filling her roughly. Pleasure intermingled with burning and piercing and throbbing hit her all at once. Sansa let out a weak cry and raked his back with her fingernails. Her heels hammered on the keys, producing a loud jangling noise. The brusqueness of his entry was more than enough to send rivers flowing from her eyes.

“Oh,” was all Petyr managed to say, clearly taken aback by the tightness and the bleeding. He paused to allow the pain to subside before withdrawing. He took her hands in his, fingers interlacing, and entered her, more gently this time. Push and pull again. And again. She picked up the rhythm and started meeting his thrusts.

Maybe it was an adrenaline rush. She flipped him over with such ease she was stunned to find herself straddling him. Gaining confidence from the flicker of amusement in his eyes, she started moving up and down, aided by his hands, thrusting his cock deeper into her. She slowly rotated her pelvis while maintaining her vertical motion. “I’m screwing you,” she laughed, “or is it the other way around?” Petyr lifted his torso and their mouths connected once more. His eyes bore into hers as she rocked back and forth on top of him, riding him wildly like a horse. No words now. Just moaning and panting and fucking. 

They had their release at the same time. Her walls twitched and tightened around his pulsating shaft, but his hot sticky seed mixed with her vaginal fluids provided sufficient lubrication. They snuggled together, bodies throbbing and aching.

“You’re perfect, Sansa,” he said. His breaths were shallow and ragged, just like hers. She angled her head to face him. His eyes softened and to their usual color. “I never imagined doing this under the stars,” she admitted, “or on top of a piano.”

His smile _did_ reach his eyes this time. “Neither did I, sweetling.”

She was sweeping a hand across his chest when she noticed an ugly jagged red scar that divided his torso into two. Petyr caught her by the hand before she could even touch it. “Don’t,” he said in a gruff voice. She pushed herself off him and gazed into his eyes, searching for emotion, an answer, anything; his grey-green irises betrayed nothing. “I won’t tell anyone,” she promised. “Please tell me what happened.”

Sighing, he pulled her back into his arms. “Hasn’t your mother told you?” Sansa shook her head. “Figured as much,” he said. “I don’t blame her. It’s not a very pleasant tale.”

“I don’t care. I’d like to know, anyway,” she insisted.

“I loved your mother more than you could ever know, but the feeling wasn’t mutual. The night after she had spurned me, she found me in the orchard, sharpening a knife. She informed me about her betrothal to Brandon Stark. Although she had always admired the man, the prospect of marriage didn’t excite her. He was eight years her senior. But family always came first, and as an obedient daughter of Hoster Tully, she will perform her duty and maybe even learn to love this stranger.

“Perhaps the alcohol had dulled my senses. Before I realized it, her face was in my hands and I was kissing her.” A fleeting smile danced on his lips. “It wasn’t the first time we’ve done it. I’ve been Cat and Lysa’s practice dummy ever since the notion of _true love’s kiss_ entered their heads.” His mouth gave a bitter twist. “She almost yielded to it. Instead, she pushed me away. ‘We’re no longer children, Petyr,’ she said. Those words were filled with rage, but she was looking at me with remorse.

“Brandon had witnessed everything. He put a heavy hand on my shoulder and told me to get lost. And I did—I lost it. I charged at him, knife in hand and stabbed him in the belly. Cat stood between us, crying and begging us both to stop. I raised my hand to stab him for a second time when she grabbed my wrist. Our reverse tug-of-war lasted for a while. In the end, the knife was buried between my nipples, below the sternum.”

Sansa could not believe what she was hearing. Small wonder her mother never mentioned this. “You’re lying,” she blurted, “A single knife stab can’t make a cut that severe.”

“I’m not through, dear,” he smiled enigmatically. “An autopsy was immediately conducted after I was pronounced dead. My wound had already been lengthened from collarbone to navel when I knocked the blade out of the coroner’s hand. It was excruciating, but his frightened expression and girlish shrieks diminished the pain.”

Petyr was stroking her hair the entire time, his unblinking eyes never abandoning hers. She felt terrible for him. Her mother almost killed him. As though the rejection had not done that already. For a moment, she thought that his mask was going to fracture, but his expression remained unchanged. _He’s beyond broken_ , she realized. She wanted to say something, but what? She hugged him even tighter.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said as he covered her lips with his. She melted into him, fitting perfectly into his frame, as if their bodies were made for each other. For a while, her worries, her losses, her misfortunes seemed like a bad dream. And she had just awoken from it. She wanted to lay here forever with him, to bask in their shared heat. She dreaded dawn, when the sun would greet them with its glare, outshining the more distant stars. The moment when he will leave her arms. She closed her eyes and listened to his heartbeat. She felt her heart suddenly plummeted when she heard him whisper not her name but her mother’s.


	15. Brides-to-be

Had it not been for the publicity, Cersei would have lunged at her, hissing accusations and putting holes into her using a ballpoint pen. Mindful of the reporters and cameras, she simply pressed her lips together. That bewitching smile again. Mrs. Baratheon was elegant as always, donning low-cut deep green tulle dress that showcased her ample bosom, and with her blonde hair neatly tucked into a French twist. Wrath was plain in her emerald eyes, which gleamed furiously like the gem around her neck. Sansa’s pale cheek was stained with red where Cersei had brushed her lips.

“Ms. Stark! Ms. Stark, a moment please. Ms. Stark!” cried one of the reporters. The howls of the press were deafening, and the flashes blinding. They flocked around her as though she were an oasis in the arid Sahara. Luckily for her, she had several bodyguards. _Petyr’s bodyguards._ They sliced through the sea of unruly media men, blocking, shoving, and even knocking a few teeth out of anyone who gets in her way. The closing elevator doors allowed her a moment’s respite, only to be ruined by Cersei. “I’ll see you upstairs,” she dismissed her guards. They nodded and obeyed her command.

“Hello, Sansa. It’s been a while since I last saw you.” She made no effort to conceal the antagonism in her voice. For a moment, Sansa regretted instructing her guards to leave her. She shunned her paranoia. _I’ll just defend myself if she tries anything. What can she possibly do?_ “I sought refuge in some of my father’s loyal friends,” she answered to the unasked question. She dared not say “her mother’s friends” as that would certainly implicate Petyr. His fondness for Catelyn Stark was well-known, or so she found. “Living on my own was impossible. Hired guns, bombers, pickpockets. Even venomous reptiles and insects participated in these assassination attempts,” she continued blithely. A touch of exaggeration should not be out of place.

Cersei gave her a faint smile. “I’m pleased to know that nothing ill has befallen you. After Joff’s and Jaime’s death, I don’t think I could bear losing any more family.” She cradled Sansa’s jaw in one hand. “That was presumptuous of me. I’m sorry. Marriage or no, you’re like mine own daughter,” she said sweetly.

_Like I’d ever marry that abomination,_ thought Sansa. Cold fingers crept down her spine. Family, the Lannisters? She’d sooner have a noose about her neck. “The death of a loved one is really painful,” she began, “especially when you know who’s _responsible_ , but can’t do anything about it.”

A spasm of rage crossed Cersei’s pretty face. Her mouth twitched in a weird freakish manner. Thin, wiry arms stretched forward, perfectly manicured hands capturing Sansa’s shoulders and shaking her violently. “You pretentious little bitch! You think you can get away with this, don’t you? Don’t you dare deny it. You killed Joffrey. _You killed my son!_ "

Sansa had so much difficulty suppressing her laughter she almost sniggered. She met Cersei’s eyes with a hard, icy stare as sharp claws dug into her flesh, threatening to break through her skin.

Her monster-in-law suddenly embraced her as the metal doors slid apart. The act was back on. “I hope a few days away haven’t reduced your skills. Here’s your office, little dove.” A peck on the cheek and Cersei was gone.

_I thought it would never end,_ Sansa sighed. She sank into her swivel chair and folded her turtleneck. Her fingertips found Petyr’s bite mark. She closed her eyes and replayed last night’s events in her head. She felt her ears and genitalia burning and throbbing at the memory. She hunched over her desk, which was still littered with photographs of her dead fiancée. “Way to curb my libido,” she murmured. She turned on her computer and started working.

Knuckles drummed on wood. Gingerly opening the door, she immediately recognized the beautiful stranger, who had a doe’s soft eyes and a cascade of brown hair. “Hi, Sansa. Welcome back to Westeros,” beamed Margaery. “Oh, did I disturb you or anything?”

“No, not at all. It’s very nice of you to drop by,” she replied. The unexpected amiability made Sansa suspicious. She and Margaery Tyrell were mere acquaintances, regarding one another with soft courtesy and nothing more. Until that proposal fiasco. She served as Margaery’s rock during the death of her romantic relationship with Robert Baratheon’s youngest brother. Renly decided to get rid of the skeletons in his closet, revealing his homosexuality to the entire world. Aside from breaking off his prior engagement, he even proposed to her brother Loras, which was salt in Margaery’s wounds. _Did Cersei put her up to this? To spy on me?_

Margaery’s pouty smile, which Sansa had always found adorable, widened. “Good. You haven’t eaten yet, have you? Lunch? My treat.”

An entire floor was allotted to expensive restaurants and cafes—French, Italian, Greek, Japanese, Mexican, it would seem as though the cuisines of all the countries known to man were present. Over mutton and fresh greens and cheese, they talked about Sansa’s disappearance. Margaery gaped at her fabricated stories. “It’s unbelievable that you survived at all,” she commented. “You’re very fortunate to have those uncles of yours, Sansa. I’m really glad to see you’re alive and well. This calls for a celebration.” She signaled the waiter and told him to bring a bottle of their most expensive champagne.

Margaery then took her to a pâtisserie where they feasted on lemon cakes and other sickeningly sweet pastries. “You remembered,” Sansa said as she plopped a piece into her mouth. The brown-haired woman happily sipped her iced tea. “Of course. I’ve taken a liking to them, too.” They kept stuffing themselves with cakes, until they could no longer eat another bite.

“Looks like I have to hit the gym ASAP,” Sansa declared, checking her tummy in the mirror. “I feel so…bloated.” Margaery giggled. “Don’t be silly. You look fine just the way you are. You actually seem to have lost a few pounds.” She brushed her brown ringlets and reapplied her lipstick, frowning at her reflection. “I’m sorry about your family,” she said glumly. “And Joffrey, too. I know you loved him dearly.”

The air grew somber. “That, I did,” she managed a weak smile. It was only half a lie. There was a time when Joffrey truly owned her heart, when he was her king. Faces came to mind again. Her mother, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, and her father. _They’re all gone. I’m done crying_ , she told herself bitterly. 

Margaery must have noticed her clenched fist. “I…I shouldn’t have mentioned them,” she apologized. She clasped Sansa’s hands. “Why don’t you come to my place after work? We can both burn off some calories,” she suggested. Sansa gave her an appreciative grin and agreed.

Back in her office, she heard her SMS alert tone. It was Petyr. _I trust you’ve been exercising precautions. This room has been bugged._ She flexed her fingers and tilted her head from side to side, stretching her muscles which were all pins and needles after sitting down for hours. “Time to meet Margaery,” she yawned as she exited the room.

The Tyrell mansion was well-furnished and lavish as ever. Mace Tyrell spared no expense, splurging on the most stylish and costly furnishings. Margaery led her down the ornate spiral staircase whose balusters were decorated with golden roses. “The gym’s down in the basement,” she said. Sansa began her workout the way Shae had taught her, starting with endurance training then proceeding to cardio. Margaery imitated her routine, copying her every action. It wasn’t long before they were both exuding buckets of sweat.

“You’re in amazing shape,” Margaery remarked as she lathered the shampoo in her hair. Sansa flushed. She wasn’t very comfortable with bathing with others, even if it were a woman. _You’ve done worse,_ she reminded herself, _A man had already seen you naked. TWICE. And you are longer a virgin._ Her crotch felt moist and warm, not from the water, but from thinking of Petyr. She turned her back to Margaery and tried cleansing the area between her legs.

Margaery’s soft chuckles made her stop and turn around. “No need to hide it, love. We all do it.”

“Y-yes. I’m just ashamed… to be watched while washing my privates.” Sansa stammered. Margaery erupted into melodious laughter and said, “Such a sweet innocent girl. That’s not what I was referring to.” Without warning, she cupped Sansa’s vulva with her hand, and a breast with the other. “There’s no shame in pleasuring ourselves, Sansa,” she said before kissing her full on the lips. Tongue demanding passage into her mouth, her middle finger explored her folds while her thumb rubbed over her nub in a circular motion.

Sansa almost surrendered to the sinful pleasure, but she had more sense than lust. She cringed, escaping from Margaery’s fingers and mouth. “What are you doing?” she asked, still dazed by what had happened.

“You’ve forgotten?” she purred. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly. “When Renly broke my heart, you stood by me, supported me…never abandoned me. Now it’s my turn to be here for you. I’ll mend the hole that Joffrey left in your heart.”


	16. Cronies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been two weeks already. Gosh. I'm really sorry. I've been busy with org work...and when I got back to the story, well, I encountered writer's block along the way. :)

“I was beginning to think that I was just a one night stand.” For far too long, she had yearned for his touch, for the press of his rock hard manhood against her body. _When did I become so wanton?_ she wondered, recalling how she would imagine him whenever she stuck her fingers down there.

Unlike her first time, Petyr tore off her clothing in such a beastly manner she worried that some of her skin had gone along with it. “You wound me, sweetling,” he said laughingly. “There’s no one else I’d rather have.”

_There is. My mother, your beloved Cat,_ she almost blurted out. She could not forget hearing him whisper her name. Was she jealous? Of her own mother, who is long dead? She still couldn’t discern what relationship she and Petyr had. _Friends with benefits, maybe._ Was he even her friend?

“Down on your fours,” he commanded softly. Kneeling, her hands found purchase on his oak coffee table. He grasped her buttocks so tightly she expected bruises. Her knuckles turned white from gripping the wood as he took her from behind. The piece of furniture budged and shook with every thrust, its legs screeching as it scraped the marble tiles. “Oh, yes! Petyrrrrrrrr!” she cried amidst the pleasure. At first, she was embarrassed by the position, finding it a little degrading to be fornicating like savage beasts. But now she no longer cared. She craved their friction. She felt complete having him inside her. Nothing else mattered.

Hot semen was overflowing, dripping down her legs and dampening her stockings. She slumped forward and almost hit the floor but Petyr caught her by the breasts and pulled her back up. The move drove his cock deeper into her. Then she squirted.

“My, aren’t you clumsy,” he said as he straightened his clothes. Flicking her tousled tresses, he kissed her firmly on the lips. “I’ll see you later. I’m off to meet a lovely blonde.” He wrapped his coat around her and laughed at her blatant frustration. “Trust me. I’ll be back,” he promised.

After a long shower in Petyr’s bathroom, she got into a fresh change of clothes and returned to her own office. She found Margaery poised on top of her desk like a leopard preparing to pounce on its prey. “I’ve missed you so, Sansa,” she greeted her. “I was gonna ask you out for dinner but your office was empty. Where have you been?”

_Bloody hell. Why me?_ thought Sansa. Margaery was severely infatuated with her. That was something that she had discovered during their stint in the shower. The Tyrell woman had even volunteered to observe Cersei and to report anything significant. Sansa gave a smile not unlike Margaery’s own and graciously thanked her for the offer. “Sorry, Marge, I’m full. I’ve already supped with my uncle Petyr earlier. I hope I’m not keeping you from eating.” _I’m not hungry. Not for food, anyway. The only thing I’m starving for right now is him._

If Margaery was disappointed, it didn’t show in her face. “Okay, Sansa,” she replied calmly. “By the way, there have been no significant changes in Cersei’s behavior. Until this late afternoon. She was angrier than usual, which I thought was impossible. Anyway, she typically leaves the building at 5:30 pm.” She took out her tablet which displayed a map of the topmost floor. “She’s still here,” she said as she pointed at the red dot on the screen. “Sansa. Sansa, where are you going? Hey, wait!”

She could hear Tywin Lannister’s voice, with all its firmness and authority. Mustering her guts, she knocked on the wooden double doors. “With the Walder Frey gone—Who is that?” The thick slabs swung open, and she saw them gathered like King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Tywin Lannister, Cersei, Mace and Loras Tyrell, Renly Baratheon, Oberyn Martell, and a few other associates whom she did not recognize. Cersei immediately rose from her seat to intercept her. “What are you doing here?” she snapped as she seized her arm. Sansa asked herself the same question. She acted impulsively, foolishly as always. “I seem to have interrupted something. I’m sorry,” she had to say. She swept her eyes across the room before returning them to Cersei. “Margaery said you sent for me, Mrs. Baratheon.” Cersei’s lips slowly formed an ‘O.’ She released Sansa and smoothed her skirts. “We will discuss later. As you can see, I’m in the middle of a meeting.”

“Nonsense,” Tywin suddenly said. Everyone in the room turned their heads to him. “Sansa, do stay. It’s high time you got involved. You are the only remaining Stark, after all.” The others nodded and murmured in agreement. Sansa sensed Petyr staring at her. In her peripheral vision, she could glimpse that ever-mocking smile and those tantalizing eyes of his. “But Father,” Cersei whined. She grabbed Sansa in the same way she had in the elevator, shaking more violently this time. “She can’t…she killed him, my son, _your grandson_. She—”

“Enough of this madness!” thundered Tywin. “I will hear no more of these accusations. _Sansa Stark stays._ If your mind is still focused on Joffrey, then perhaps you best join those forensic investigators. I need my intelligent daughter, not a clucking hen that broods on less important matters.”

Sansa uncomfortably slid into the seat between Oberyn Martell and Mace Tyrell. Grudgingly, Cersei returned to her place on Tywin’s right side. The head Lannister cleared his throat. “Now, as I was saying. Walder Frey.” Petyr threw her a look that said “I know what you did.” She allowed herself a little smile which lasted for a split second.

“I think none of Frey’s bastards are capable of running the old man’s company,” began Mace Tyrell. “Twins will collapse upon itself like a dying star turning into a blackhole. I suggest we leave them be.” A few heads bobbed up and down. Words were incomprehensible from all the buzzing and chattering of many mouths. Oberyn Martell broke the barrage of bees. “If we allow the weeds to propagate, it won’t be long before they strangle us while we slumber,” he said with his thick Persian accent. “They still hold some important investors and are still competing with us for more. I say we remove them from the game completely.” Cersei seemed to prefer Martell’s suggestion to Tyrell’s. “Oberyn, I agree. The ship has already been sunk. All it needs is an anchor to drag it into the abyss and permanently secure it there.” She fixed her eyes on Sansa and flashed a vicious, yet alluring grin. “Baelish, why don’t you sort this one out? You’ve done such a fantastic job with Ned Stark and his pals I want to witness your handiwork once more.” Smilingly, Petyr said, “It pleases me to have pleased you. Although, I must admit, that compliment makes me seem like some kind of death god.”

Sansa pretended she hadn’t heard that, darting her eyes from Tywin to his brother Kevan, and to the strangers on the other side of the table, feigning an interest in their conversations. But inside, she was a volcano on the verge of eruption. She could not bear to look at him. Half of her was angry with him, believed that every word and deed was a lie, wanted to tear him to pieces. Another was in disbelief, convincing her that Cersei said that just to spite her. Maybe she knew about the carnal relationship she had with Petyr. It was not entirely impossible.

It was unclear which side was winning. The rest of the meeting was a blur to her, exchanging empty words, nodding and smiling and shaking hands here and there. A battle of emotions ensued, and that was all she knew.


	17. Irreciprocal

It was not until she locked her apartment doors that she let her tears flow freely. Head buried beneath the pillows, she cried her heart out. Cersei’s words have triggered a decade-old memory, a memory of her father getting shot to death and of a man who embraced her through it all. A man with grey-green eyes.

“I’m such a bloody idiot!” she screamed into the sheets. Throughout her entire life, she assumed that Ned Stark had been killed by a drug syndicate. Now she knows better. She wished she had remembered it earlier, before she trusted Petyr, before she had given her all to him. Despite her negative feelings, she still wanted him. The rivulets from her eyes grew more tempestuous at this realization. _Have I gone so far as to love him?_ she asked herself.

Her mulling was disrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. She wiped her face and positioned herself in front of the mic. “Whatever it is you’re selling, I don’t want any. Go away!” She undressed and entered the bathroom, leaving a trail of skirts and undergarments on the living room floor.

Jaime Lannister crossed her mind while she bathed in the warm steaming water. “Maybe I should have fallen for you instead,” she murmured. “Unrequited love probably wouldn’t hurt as much as this.” Sensing the decrease in temperature of her bath, she grabbed a towel and dried herself. She stepped into the living room, naked as a babe, only to find Petyr seated on her couch.

“We should stop meeting like this,” he said as his eyes wandered over her body and finally dwelt on the auburn bush between her legs. She noticed that he had folded and neatly piled the clothes that she scattered. “Oh I’m sorry,” she replied, “I wasn’t exactly expecting anyone tonight.” She disappeared into the bathroom and returned clad in a robe. “I seem to have forgotten about my spare keys. Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be wiping some lovely blonde’s ass?”

Petyr smirked. “Goldenheads bore me. You left in such a hurry we didn’t get a chance to talk in private.” He captured her chin between his thumb and his forefinger. “You’ve been crying. Is something the matter?”

_You tell me._ “Have you ever uttered a single completely true thing since you were born?” she said sharply, swatting his hand away. “I can’t believe I actually trusted you. Even…” She tried her hardest to hold back her tears but failed miserably. “Is that why you took me in? Absolution for what you’ve done to my father?” A soft cackle suddenly escaped her. “No, that can’t be it. Guilt was _never_ in your vocabulary. Love seems more likely. A substitute, that’s all I am. What better replacement than her own blood? Coitus must have been disappointing for you, though. It’s not the same. It never will be. I’m sorry I can’t be my mother. I’m _not_ your beloved Cat!”

Petyr maintained his neutral expression. “I see. The trauma must have erased the circumstances of Ned Stark’s death from your memory,” he said in a voice a whisker above a whisper. “I can see so much of her in you,” he admitted, “I sometimes lose track of who you are.” He ran his fingers through her hair. “You’re more beautiful than she ever was.” He drew her nearer to place his lips upon hers when he felt a barrel pushed against his throat. “Can you do it?” he taunted her. The grin had vanished, and she glimpsed, for the first time, something akin to hurt in those grey-green abysses.

“I was foolish to believe in love. It failed me the first time, what made me think it will do me any good now?” Her eyes broke like dams as she slowly began to pull the trigger. “I…fuck you!” she sobbed and dashed out of the apartment.

She looked ridiculous, with her bathrobe flapping in the wind and her soft house slippers thumping on the concrete as she ran blindly. The Glock was still in her hand, loaded and prepared to bury a bullet in someone’s flesh. Her head was spiraling, filled with confusion and torment. She somehow found herself sprinting up flights of stairs in the Westeros building.

“Sansa?” Cersei was busy arranging some documents when she burst through the doors. She eyed her from head to toe, taking note of her disheveled appearance. “Queer choice of clothing, dear. Is this a new office trend? Some kind of _Casual Friday_ I haven’t heard about?” she asked sarcastically, with a hint of genuine surprise.

She had no time for japes. “I want answers. You mentioned my father in the meeting earlier. Was it truly by my uncle Petyr’s hand that he was slain?”

Cersei finally put down the stack of papers. “Oh, little dove, are you so completely daft?” She gave Sansa a light pinch on the cheek. “You want the truth? Yes, sweetling, Baelish certainly had his finger in that pie, but the order came from me. Ned Stark, he dug too deep and learned too much, the loyal, meddling oaf. He had to be dealt with.”

The brutal honesty was like a fist to her abdomen. “You killed him because he knew about this company’s little secrets. About all the smuggling, the drugs, the CEO-killing, and…” Sansa smiled enigmatically. “Your bastards of incest.”

Her contempt was palpable. Her face was a skinny tomato, her emerald eye an eerie green slit like that of a reptile. If it were physiologically possible, steam would rise from her ears and nostrils as she vented her rage. The black flap over her left eye further enhanced her villainous appearance. “How did you come about that information, you little vile bitch?” she hissed. “What scheme are you hatching? Are you here to pry Westeros from my hands? An ignorant fool such as yourself, surely you cannot possibly imagine running a business this huge? You…” Terror seized her, her good eye growing white and wide and wild. “If you lay even a finger on Tommen or Myrcella, you will rue not burning with those other Starks.”

“I have been regretting not joining my family in their graves,” she said wryly. “But the solitude suits me quite well, I’ve found. After all, it’s only natural for children to watch their parents die, to bury them, to live without them. The other way around is rather uncanny, don’t you think?”

It was Cersei’s turn to shed some tears. Whatever effort made to contain her emotions were abandoned. “No one believes me. Not even Father. They think you too _innocent_. They have no idea how much they err in that matter. You murdered Joff, brutally castrated him like livestock!” she fumed. “No. Even swine and cattle have suffered kinder fates. At least the farmers perform the procedure properly and cleanly. You may have deceived the others, but not Cersei Baratheon. I can see right through your goody two-shoes act, you scheming bitch.” A 0.45 slid out of her sleeve like some magician’s trick. It was too late for Sansa to grab her own gun. The projectile had already been launched, making its way to its target.

Red marbles splashed in the air when she opened her eyes. _Why am I not in pain?_ She finally realized that the blood wasn’t hers. Unconsciously, her left hand flew beneath her robe to draw the gun that she had concealed at her back. Bull’s eye. Her shot punched a hole through Cersei’s eye patch, causing blood to gush out of the dark pit that was once her eye. Cersei fell on the floor, screaming and cursing and touching her bloodied face, as if that would do anything to stop the bleeding.

Cradled in Sansa’s arms, Margaery opened her mouth to speak, only to stain her robe red. Sansa put a finger over her lips. “No need to talk. Help is on the way.” She could hardly believe that Margaery Tyrell had just sacrificed herself for her. The woman loved her truly. _If only you were a man,_ she found herself thinking, _No. It'll still be him._ "Why, Margaery? Why'd you do it?"

The brown-eyed girl smiled ever so sweetly despite the life surging out of her it pained Sansa just to watch. “Have you ever loved me?” she asked. She did not wait for her to answer. “It’s okay. You allowed me to share your woes, to spend time with you, to love you. That’s enough for me. You loving me back would serve as some kind of bonus. I am very happy to have met you, Sansa.”

Despite how much of a nuisance she was to her, Sansa never wished Margaery dead. To the end, she proved to be a loyal friend, a true friend. “You sound like you’re saying goodbye. Don’t leave me yet, please,” she said as her hand clasped hers. She carried her and rested her upon the long table. With the bullet still lodged in her, blood loss will be minimized. She can still be saved.

The 0.45 lay several yards across the room, far from Cersei’s reach. Not that having a gun will make any difference. She lacked the marksmanship and fighting skills that Sansa was ever so confident in. “You wanted a confession out of me, didn’t you?” she asked. Cersei spat, landing red spittle on her toes. Sansa ignored this. “Listen closely. This may very well be the last thing that will enter your ears. I killed your vicious bastard, dismembered him using broken glass. Before that, I bludgeoned his golden head with a bottle of Château Margaux.”

“You fucking bitch!”

She shot her at the back of the knee, much like what they had done to her father. Cersei shrieked. “I’m not through. Your sweet Jaime died on top of me, naked. He nearly smashed my bones with all those muscles.”

Cersei’s mouth hang open. “Targaryen had nothing to do with this? Was he—”

“…fucking me?” she finished for her. “He was an excellent kisser. ‘You remind me of my sister, Cersei,’ he said before introducing me to his cock. It’s amazing what a little blonde dye could do.”

“You monster. Stealing Joffrey away wasn't enough, was it? You had to take Jaime too. Soon, you'll be seducing my father, is that the way of it?! You conniving, thieving wench, you’ll burn in hell for this!” Cersei forced herself up with all her strength and lunged at Sansa, hoping to tackle her.

Sansa’s glock fired again, but all Cersei got was graze on her cheek. “How very pious of you. Go preach in hell while you await my arrival.” Cersei’s body was a red slice of cheese when Sansa was through with her. She heard the rustle of Harry’s helicopter.

The man embraced her tightly as she wept on his shoulder. Harry was not to blame; he got there as soon as he could. Gazing at Margaery’s corpse drained all the joy and pleasure she got out of putting holes through Cersei. _I’m sorry, Marge. Forgive me, I couldn’t love you as much as you loved me._


	18. Wake

_“This can’t be. You—I saw you die…in a pool of blood.” Sansa rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, expecting her to disappear. She was still there, though, cradling Sansa’s head in her lap. Gently stroking her auburn locks, Margaery hushed her. “I promised to never leave your side, remember? I’ll always come back for you, no matter what.” She began humming a tune, slow and serene as summer breeze._

_As Sansa slowly closed her eyes, the song started sounding eerily wrong. Sharps and flats dominated, and other voices joined in, creating an incongruous mingling of sounds. The hand on her hair grew harsher and heavier. She bolted up at the sight of Cersei’s single eye. The woman grinned wolfishly, baring her teeth that were as jagged as broken glass. Sansa backed away, fumbling her pockets for a weapon; she found none._

_Cersei stretched her arms to her sides. Shadows emerged from her limbs, clasping each other’s hands like paperdolls and encircling Sansa. Fibers coiled and intertwined, and soon the silhouettes took flesh. Joffrey, Jaime, Viserys, Walder Frey, Cersei. Her own family had joined them, as well. It gave her little comfort not finding her father’s steel irises among them. “Leave me alone! You can’t be here. You’re all dead!” she screamed._

_“We’re all dead because of you.” Their voices were dry as dead leaves, as though they had come from somewhere far away. Death crept around her. The leaves of the elm had withered and fallen, transforming the tree into a gaunt hand with dark long fingers grasping for the heavens. Winds howled like wolves as the sky was crowded with clouds that spilled torrents and painted the earth red._

They’re burying me, _she realized. The ground rose by inches as they pushed her into the dirt. She struggled feebly against the downward force, but only succeeded in increasing her depth. She could taste the soil, the worms, the blood. She was about to breathe her last, when a grey-green light shone. A hand reached for hers and pulled her up._

Harry’s worry-stricken face greeted her. “Just a dream. A horrifying dream,” she murmured as she tried to normalize her breathing. Her neck and her back were slick with cold sweat. “You scared me there,” said Harry. “You wouldn’t wake, even when I shook you and spilled a glass of water in your face.”

She smiled faintly. “I’m sorry for…being an inconvenience,” she said. She glanced at the clock on his nightstand. _6:15._ “I can’t thank you enough, for last night. It was on _very_ short notice, but you still came without complain. I’m grateful to have a friend like you, Harry.”

“It’s nothing. You must be starving. Let me get you breakfast.”

Her stomach grumbled in agreement. She had not had a bite of food since lunch yesterday. _My last meal with Margaery,_ she thought with a pained heart. Seeing her robe and undergarments heaped on the floor suddenly jogged her memory. It almost slipped her mind how she crawled into his bed last night. “Harry, what happened between us,” she said between bites of pancake, “It was a mistake. I was drunk and lost and lonely. I don’t know what came over—”

He kissed her full on the lips, swallowing her words. She foolishly hoped for the taste of menthol in his mouth, but sweet honey laced her tongue instead. The entire thing felt different, felt somewhat wrong—no hairs tickled her upper lip, his tongue was almost motionless, and the eyes gazing into hers were blue and blinking. She turned away and retreated to the pillows.

“So that’s how it is,” he murmured wistfully. “I pretended to be deaf. I tried to drown out the sound, but I can still hear it, until now.” He blinked his eyes rapidly and lifted his face to keep the tears from rolling. “He dropped by this morning and left that,” he pointed at the paper bag leaning against the headboard.

_I understand how you feel. That happened to me, too,_ she thought. She gnawed her lip. She was at a loss of words. _What should I tell him? Must I apologize as I did to Margaery?_ It was much his fault as it was hers. She should have been straightforward; he should have taken a hint.

A wan smile on his lips, he walked toward an enormous painting on the wall. It was a fair woman, naked, save for the translucent strip of cloth artfully wound about her breasts and sex. Sansa had not noticed it before: she was her. Harry ran a hand across the image, as though it were alive. “I would’ve appreciated a blunt rejection,” he began saying. “Instead you left me half-dead, like a dangling fruit with its pathetic little stem close to snapping!” An arm fell to his side, knocking over a vase, which he quickly caught a few inches shy of the floor. “I brought this upon myself. I was too naïve, optimistic…too stupid. The signs were all there, yet I refused to open my eyes and see.”

“I…I didn’t mean to make you expect something more than friendship from me,” she said softly. “I’m really sorry, Harry. A coward, I was, for not informing you sooner. I was afraid to lose a friend, to lose you.” She rose from the bed, clad in a sheet much like the woman in the frame.

Ignoring the streams that ran down his cheeks, he turned to face her. “Well, you already have. _Yes_ or _no_ , there is no _maybe_ , no middle ground. You’re the only woman I have ever wept for, Sansa. I cried not for my mother, nor for hers.” Brushing away his tears, he extended his arm, palm open and welcoming hers. “This is farewell, Sansa Stark.”

Tales of Margaery Tyrell and Cersei Baratheon shooting each other to death had spread throughout Westeros like wildfire. A few coworkers muttered condolences as they encountered her. It was no secret that she and Margaery were best friends.

Loras and Renly were huddled in the corner of the lounge, the former muffling sobs while the latter consoled him. Loras’ beautiful brown eyes have become red and puffy from all the crying. _He looks just like her,_ Sansa told herself as she recalled Margaery’s tear-stained face the day Renly made his announcement. _No. I shouldn’t think of her._

Her own office offered her no peace. Margaery had dwelt there during the last hours of her life. The smell of her skin still lingered, roses and jasmine. It was driving her mad. Everything she laid her eyes upon reminded her of the brown-haired woman. Sometimes, she could hear her sweet voice or catch sight of her skirts swaying before her.

“This is crazy. She’s dead,” she chided herself. She bitterly remembered her most recent nightmare. _They all are. And it’s all my fault._ She tried focusing on ledgers and charts, reading a magazine, and even playing solitaire on her computer. None of these activities distracted her from thinking about Margaery. She rubbed her fingers in circles over her temples. _I have to get out of here,_ she decided.


	19. The Dance

Grey and white clashed, dividing the sky into two woolen blankets. The clouds mirrored her emotions. Mourning and rejoicing collided; grief for Margaery’s death, exhilaration and contentment for Cersei’s. _The piano is missing,_ she reflected as she stared at a spot near the middle of the floor. _Course it is. This isn’t Petyr’s rooftop._

“Lovers’ quarrel?” a voice called out. _Speak of the devil._ Petyr was smartly-dressed, as usual, sharp and handsome in another one of his dark-colored ensembles. She eyed him suspiciously, wary of any guns or knives or throwing stars hidden beneath his coat. “If I wanted you dead, I’d have done it a long time ago,” he laughed, clearly sensing her cautious behavior.

“We decided to break up,” she replied. She thanked him for the clothes that he had sent her this morning. Returning to her apartment would have taken too much time, especially without Harry to ferry her there. _Harry and his helicopter._ That option was no longer available, she knew. “What do you want?” she asked.

He fingered the stubble on his chin. “Why do people always assume I want something?” he said plaintively. “Why, for now, I _want_ this.” He sketched a bow and stretched an arm in front of her, offering her a rose. It was blue, pale as the dawn sky, strangely melancholic yet beautiful. _What the fuck? Has he lost his wits?_ “What are you doing?” she snapped.

“I’m sure your family had something extravagant in mind.” He placed the stem into her left hand. “Happy birthday, Sansa.” Suddenly, that very hand was resting on his shoulder, and the other one found its way into his left. He held her tenderly, as though he were handling something fragile. Something that he feared to break.

_My birthday. My eighteenth birthday._ She had completely lost track of sunsets and sunrises. “But there’s no music,” she protested. To that, he merely pressed a finger against her lips. “Just keep your eyes on mine, and follow my lead.” He took a long step backward, then two short ones. Her feet chased his, imitating every stride and turn. All the while, her eyes stood still, paying attention to nothing but the grey-green. They waltzed and swayed and twirled, moving to mute music, a tune that reached no one else’s ears but theirs.

“Do you love me, Petyr?”

“Curious. Have you been reading the Bible lately? You sound oddly like Jesus.”

She disregarded the joke. “Answer the question,” she insisted. Lightning streaked the sky as she spoke. Then the gods struck their drums and gongs, and the heavens cried. 

Soaked to her underwear and chilled to the bone, she shivered as the air conditioners blasted cold wind. She blamed herself for not listening to Petyr. The last time she ran and played in the rain was when she was ten. She had gotten quite a scolding and another long and boring lecture from her mother. _I’d be getting worse if she were to see me now._

Petyr was staring at her again. The moisture had taken years off him. She wanted to touch his face, to feel those bristles graze her skin, but thought better of it. _I’m just a second Cat,_ she told herself. “You’re shaking like an epileptic,” he said. He caught her face between his soft warm hands. “Shae will be bringing you dry clothes. In the meantime, you’ll need to seek warmth elsewhere.” He moved away from her, stripping off his damp clothing until only his slacks remained. Seeing his lean, compact torso almost made her smile. She buried her head between her knees and embraced herself tightly. _Fuck this shit._ “Where the hell are you, Shae?” she muttered under her breath.

“Why don’t you take a hot shower for the time being?” he suggested. “Quick and skilled as she may be, Shae doesn’t have teleportation powers.” His arms were folded across his chest, hands pocketed in his armpits. Water droplets on his skin reflected the fluorescent light so eloquently they seemed like jewels adorning his body.

“What about you? Won’t you freeze to death?” _Wait. Didn’t I want him dead?_ she asked herself.

His lips twisted into that devilish mocking smile. “I have no intention of dying in a tub like Viserys Targaryen had. And besides, I hardly think you’d enjoy sharing a bath with me.”

_I enjoy doing a lot of things with you._ “It’ll be warmer with you,” she said, grabbing his arm and leading him into the bathroom. No sooner had the water drizzled upon them than she kissed him. Heat traveled to her extremities in a wave pulsing through her flesh. _Finally,_ she thought as she opened her eyes to meet his, _the right taste and color._ His palms claimed her buttocks and hers his chest. She ran a finger down the red slash that traversed the length of his upper body. “I’ll forget you just did that,” he said smilingly, “since it’s your birthday.”

_“We’re all dead because of you.”_ Her head jerked up and her eyelids fluttered open. The dream recurred, only this time, there was no light in the end. No one was there to lift her from her grave. Petyr’s absence had not surprised her. He always disappeared, without much of a “goodbye” or “see you later.” She peered out of the window, at the dark moonless sky. A solitary star shimmered, a timid white dot against the screaming black curtain. _It’s alone and lonely, just like me._

She resolved to kill Tywin Lannister tonight, believing it the only way to silence the ghosts that poisoned her sleep. She dreaded Tywin’s death as much as she yearned for it. She will have to put an end to Petyr, too.

The workstations and offices were empty, as expected, but they felt somewhat more desolate than they already are. Margaery was striding alongside her, grinning and speaking words of encouragement. “I’ll see this through and make this madness stop.”

Tywin Lannister was always the first to come to work and the last to leave. Sansa began to wonder whether or not he had witnessed the shooting. She suspected that he knew and was only pretending to be ignorant. _The moment of truth,_ she thought as she turned the knob. Having been prowling through the darkness several minutes ago, the shining lights of Tywin’s room nearly blinded her. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness. His office was pristine, its polished marble floors scrubbed to a sheen and with everything neatly piled and organized. Books lined the numerous shelves that populated the room, giving it a library-like look. The only personal thing that had gotten in her sights was six-inch tall manticore statue that stood beside his computer. Standing on two legs and roaring mightily, the little beast was solid gold, from jaw to tail, and had fearsome red eyes wrought out of rubies. _Queer,_ she thought as she studied the figure. For all the gold the room had to offer, Tywin Lannister’s pale blonde whiskers were nowhere to be found. In a smaller space at the edge of the room, she glimpsed the shadow of a man sitting down. Gripping her gun, she tiptoed toward the figure and flicked the light switch.

“What fresh hell is this?” The room stank of feces and of death. Pants pooled around his ankles, Tywin’s muscular legs were two elongated golden fields of wheat. He was perched on the toilet, with his upper body bent backwards and his hands gripping the metal rails on the wall. His eyes were wide open, blisteringly cold emerald ice flecked with gold. Blood spilled from the hole between his eyebrows like juice from a punctured can.

“Petyr. Petyr. Petyr, isn’t that a traitor’s name?” He emerged from the shadows, pointing a gun at her. She spun and dived and rolled, adeptly avoiding his warning shot. “Let’s play a game. Are you fond of games, Sansa?” He fired again, missing her head by a millimeter.

Sansa felt the fire rising in her belly. “As of late? No.” Her bullet clinked as it ricocheted off Tywin’s golden manticore. “Unlike you, I dislike toying with people and emotions.”

Chuckling, he nimbly and gracefully dodged her succeeding shots, as easily as he did that pillow she had thrown at him back in her room. “How hypocritical of you. Wasn’t handsome Harry your little plaything?” he said languidly. “Or was that me?” Three blasts. One streamed between her thighs, narrowly failing to hit her crotch. Another nearly disarmed her, pushing the barrel and knocking the gun sideways out of her hand. The third one scratched the graze on her shoulder.

A flush crept up her neck and onto her face. He was not wrong about Harry. Unintentional or not, she still toyed with his boyish heart, bending and twisting it to her will. As for Petyr… “It’s the other way around. It was _you_ who played with me!” She finally managed to touch him, but only for a split second. Her shot kissed the edge of his ear before burying itself into Tywin’s couch. She knelt behind the couch to reload. With all her strength, she flipped the piece of furniture, using its of cloth and stuffing as a shield. As holes were punched through its soft surface, she flung it at him. The object moved through the air sluggishly, making its trajectory very easy to predict.

A song of bullets accompanied their series of ducks and feints and jumps. Tywin’s tomes and tables were converted into shooting targets. The once spotless workplace was now a smoky ruin. “Terrific,” Sansa cursed as she cast aside her weapons. She had exhausted her ammunition. Pieces of paper flew and spiraled down to the floor like feathers. Her eyes scanned the room for Petyr.

Strong hands suddenly seized her wrists, almost throwing her off balance. “Caught you,” he whispered, smiling, as though they were simply playing tag. She thrashed her arms and tried to wriggle from his grip, to no avail. Flailing her legs, she attempted to land a blow on his groin, but he raised his knee to block her heels. He pinned her to the wall and silenced her with a kiss. She squirmed, trying her hardest to resist the taste of his mouth, but eventually surrendered.

“How long do you intend to muddle my feelings?” she spat after he finally let go of her. She jabbed a finger at her chest. “It hurts, Petyr. It really does. Your silken voice, your ghostlike caresses, that sinful grin…everything about you breaks my heart. Why does it have to be you? Why was I cursed to love such a cruel man? A man capable of loving no one else but my mother?”

“Love?” A deep, diabolical laugh followed the word. “In real life, monsters are never loved. Only feared and hated—” Long red arrows flew as he opened his mouth to speak. “…and killed,” he coughed.

Watching the warm, malice-free smile spread across his face made tears stream down hers, burning hot like magma. She slowly unsheathed the blade from his heart. “No matter how much of a malevolent creature you are, I love you. We both are monsters, you and I.”


	20. The Accomplice

“Not a complete and utter fool. Combined with Renly Baratheon and the Redwynes, he still owns 50% of our shares,” said a voice so soft, the entire room had to be hushed to hear his words. His eyes were pale, the color of ice, almost transparent. Short black thorns crowned him and formed an arc that retreated too far from his forehead. “They might convince Stannis to join them,” suggested one of the Lannister cronies. Others joined the strength of their voices to his.

Oberyn Martell shifted on his seat, sipping dark burgundy from time to time. Harys Swyft was drumming his fingers against the table with a stupid facial expression that Sansa found both droll and irritating. Cersei disliked him, she recalled. She found herself doing the same thing.

“Highly unlikely,” said Tyrion Lannister. In his little tailored suit, he looked more like a ringbearer than a corporate executive. “There is little love between the Baratheon brothers,” he continued, “and even less after Robert’s death and Renly’s wedding. Stannis cannot stomach homosexuals much as my father cannot dwarves.”

“Mr. Bolton is correct,” said Sansa, finally remembering Mr. Ice Eyes’ name. “The demise of Westeros will be Mace Tyrell’s as well. As for Stannis, I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t dare.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked Swyft. _God I hate this old stoat._

“Selyse Florent-Baratheon may mean nothing to him, but surely, he holds his daughter more dearly than even this red sorceress-mistress. Should any word of Westeros’ involvement in these killings come out, poor Shireen will have to pay the price.”

The boardroom was aghast; Martell choked on his wine, Swyft’s mouth hang open, increasing his dimwitted appearance, Mr. Ice Eyes raised a brow. Alester Florent balked at her implied suggestion. “Y-you can’t possibly mean…” Her poisonously sweet smile drained the color from his face. Tyrion was chuckling in his seat. “Aren’t you full of surprises?” said the dwarf. “You most certainly are _not_ Eddard Stark’s daughter. You have the makings of a decent Cersei.”

“You are too kind to say so,” she answered coldly. “I’m still very much my father’s daughter. Only, I have something he hadn’t: excellent teachers, Mrs. Baratheon being one of them.”

_Another boring meeting,_ she thought as she reclined on her swivel chair in the comforts of her office. She turned to face the man seated adjacent to her. “What a bunch of schmucks. Everything is running smoothly, according to planned. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Silence. He simply stared back at her, dark gaping pits in place of grey-green eyes. Stroking his jaw, she planted a kiss on phantom lips. Cold, hard bone met soft flesh. It did not dishearten her. “Oh, Petyr, my sweet Petyr. Never _ever_ leave me.”


End file.
